


Lucifer's Gardens

by ampersand_ch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Academic Club, Doctors & Physicians, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Esotericism, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hospitals, Johnlock Roulette, Jungian Archetypes, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Poison, Rituals, Romance, Sexual Content, Therapy, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:45:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes undercover for an investigation as a favour to Lestrade in a village in Suffolk. The events surrounding the case awaken deep-seated fears in Sherlock. While John begins to come to a realisation of what he needs in Lucifer's Gardens, Sherlock tries to find a way to reach John – in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * A translation of [Luzifers Gärten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821326) by [ampersand_ch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch). 



> Thank you, SwissMiss for translating this story as well!  
> You are priceless...

The birds gather on the overhead power lines, preparing for their journey south. A string of black pearls, barely visible through the fog that blankets the land. A damp, heavy veil. The melancholy of mortality. Summer is over. An astonishing regularity in the intervals between the birds. Like dewdrops dangling from a spider web at dawn. So even. A secret law at the root of creation. The birds unmoving. Waiting. No one knows what for. They launch into flight eventually, no warning, the trigger cutting a swath through the territory. Sweeping them all along with it. The power of a mysterious order. Order. A black swarm. 

***

"You won't be alone, John," Lestrade said. "The lads in Bury St Edmunds will have your back. And we've got another man on the scene who's cooperating with us. He'll make sure you're introduced to the right circles."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. His gaze met John's. "Send one of YOUR people, Lestrade," he said.

John raised his eyebrows incredulously but didn't say anything.

"I haven't got anyone, Holmes," Lestrade said. "That's why I'm coming to you. This undercover investigation could take a long time. We reckon at least two months. I can't do without any of my men that long. And John's perfect, being a doctor and all. The trail leads straight to St Anna's Hospital. John could work there. He'd have the perfect cover."

"What are the 'right circles'?" John asked.

"Most of the doctors at St Anna's belong to the same club. An academic old boys social club. All three victims attended regularly. The lads in Bury have evidence that the culprits can be found there. They meet in an old manor house just outside of town called 'Lucifer's Gardens'. Doctors and chemists get together with scientists from the technical college and literature and philosophy dons from the nearby university. Kind of stuffy, I reckon, you know, the usual. Academic snobbery. Discussions, debates, explaining how the world works, drinking whiskey, reading, networking." Lestrade's tone made it more than clear what he thought of institutions like that.

"I'll need more information in order to make a decision," John said.

"There's nothing to decide," Sherlock said in an icy voice as he stood up. "We're not taking the case." Turning to Lestrade: "You'll have to look elsewhere for someone to take on this assignment, Lestrade. You're barking up the wrong tree."

Sherlock walked out of the office without another word. John stayed seated, shaking his head. Sherlock had to call to him from the door: "Are you coming, John?" before he got up and went out into the corridor.

John grabbed Sherlock by the arm. "We're taking the case," he said firmly.

"No, we're not!" Sherlock's eyes flashed with irritation.

"We need the money, Sherlock, you know that. We haven't had a case in a while and this one will pay really well. Plus Lestrade's in a tight spot and it would be easy for me to help him out."

"Easy? We're talking triple murder here, John. It's a dangerous assignment."

"Every assignment is dangerous."

Sherlock snorted. "You'll be in Bury. Unfamiliar territory. Surrounded by strangers. I'll be far away. I won't be able to help you if anything happens. You do realise that?"

"I went to war, Sherlock. And I have survived without you before."

"I know. You're still not going to Bury."

"Why not? I have time and I'm the perfect candidate for the mission."

"I need you in London, John!"

"What for?"

A ripple of astonishment and uncertainty flickered through Sherlock's pale eyes. They held each other's gaze, not speaking. Sherlock didn't answer for a long time. Finally, he said, "I thought we were a team."

John took a deep breath and lowered his gaze, surprised at the disappointment evident in Sherlock's voice. Then he looked up into his friend's eyes. 

"Sherlock," he said gently, "we ARE a team. And I'm part of it. That's why you should let me take this case."

They stared at each other. Sherlock teetering. He exhaled, took a few nervous steps back and forth, spinning on his own axis. Then he stopped directly in front of John.

"I don't want you going there alone," he said.

"There's no other way this time, Sherlock. I'll be going undercover. I need to cut all my ties to London for the mission."

Sherlock snorted. "Precisely," he said resentfully. "That is precisely my point!"

"Is it so hard to have a bit of faith in me?" John asked. "To let me out of your sight for two months?"

Sherlock's piercing gaze. Lingering. Then, abruptly, his eyes became shuttered. His mouth a thin line.

"You want to do this case no matter what," he realised. "Even without me."

"No. Not without you, Sherlock. But independently from you."

"Well, have you two decided yet?" Lestrade asked from inside his office.

John and Sherlock looked at each other. Then Sherlock went back into the DI's office without another word, stiff, his hands clasped behind his back. John followed. Sherlock sat back down on his chair. John took the seat next to him.

"I gather that means yes?" Lestrade asked, looking from one to the other.

"I'll go to Bury," John said. "And I'd appreciate having a bit more information."

Lestrade beamed. "Thanks, John!" he said, both relieved and happy. "I'll introduce you to Phil Salisbury then, if that's all right with you. Phil's the surgeon at St. Anna's who's cooperating with us. You'll be working with him at the hospital, John, and he'll introduce you to the club. He can give you any additional information you need."

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who sat silent and sullen on his chair, not giving any sign of reacting to the offer. Lestrade then looked back at John, who sighed and nodded. A relieved smile. Lestrade waved at someone in the next room.

A door opened just a few seconds later, and an officer ushered in Phil Salisbury. John stood up automatically; the man had made an immediate impression on him. Sherlock got up too, perhaps resigned, perhaps surprised. Phil Salisbury was a man who attracted attention. A tall, trim figure, grey hair, fine, even features. He was older than expected, maybe around sixty. His clothes were simple yet tasteful: jeans, white button-down, suit jacket. He approached the other men, his smile open and sincere, a natural grace in his movements. He had an air of calm and charisma about him. Serenity. Undivided attention. He looked John and Sherlock over in a friendly way. Lestrade introduce Sherlock first, then John.

"Dr John Watson. John's a medical doctor," Lestrade said. "He'll be doing the investigating for us."

Phil shook John's hand. A firm, cool grip. "I'm looking forward to working with you," he said courteously. A warm, deep voice. A smile in his eyes: clear and lucid, a strikingly light doe-brown, almost yellow, scattered with random green and brown flecks. A diffuse pattern. Profound tranquility behind them. Phil was a handsome man, any way you looked at it.

"Phil can give you more details about St Anna's and the club," Lestrade said once they'd all sat down again.

No one said anything at first. Phil's good-natured gaze rested on John for a few seconds. Then he looked away with a smile when he registered Sherlock's reaction.

"I think I'd better introduce myself first so you know what you're getting into," he said. His smile released a bouquet of tiny lines at the corner of his eyes.

Phil was the senior consultant and head of neurosurgery at St Anna's. A small department, just twenty staff members, three surgeons amongst them. He performed operations himself. Frequently. A passion of his. John would be allowed to work as his assistant. Or something else. It all depended on what John wanted, and where his abilities lay. They could discuss it. Phil was flexible and could adjust accordingly. The hospital was small but top-notch. A good working climate, excellent leadership. The team stuck together closely. Most of them met up regularly at the club. The club itself was set up to facilitate exchanging knowledge, spending free time with friends, and maintaining an interdisciplinary network.

"Could I just ask what your interest is in working with the police?" Sherlock asked.

It was an extraordinarily respectully formulated question, by Sherlock's standards, and it made John smirk to himself. Sherlock was impressed by this man as well, never mind the fact that he was once again sitting in a markedly casual pose and wore a cool, impassive expression.

Phil replied simply, "My domestic partner was one of the murder victims." It sounded entirely matter-of-fact. Phil met Sherlock's eye, withstood the searching gaze.

"Is there any indication that the murders have anything to do with the sexual orientation of the victims?" Sherlock asked, although he directed the question to Lestrade.

"There are suspicions," Lestrade answered. "One of the two other men who were killed lived with a woman, the third was a bachelor. Neither of them had any well-defined relationships with men – at least not officially. But since they were fairly heavily involved with the club, we assume they were at least interested in men, however you want to define that interest."

Aha. Sherlock's eyes met John's. 

"Can you explain a little more about the club, in light of that last statement?" Sherlock asked. This time the question was to Phil.

"Sure. Lucifer's Gardens is only open to men with an academic background, and friendship – of every kind, including romantic – is a central theme. The club is explicitly open to any and every kind of relationship between men, both allowing and encouraging them. It's all about male culture. The perception of male values and male identity. You'll find the entire range of male relationships at the club, from bitter rivalries to classically defined friendships, sexual affairs to platonic love and life-long soulmates."

"How romantic," Sherlock mocked.

John sent him a dark look. Phil smiled. Then he looked over at John, still smiling and calm, giving him all of his attention.

"I don't think it should be a problem for you, John. The point of the club isn't your sexual orientation. It's about connections. Every man with an academic background is welcome. There are no selection criteria aside from an open mind and tolerance."

"Yes," John said simply. He took note of the look being directed at him out of those astonishingly clear, tranquil eyes and had to stare at the floor for a few seconds to take stock of what he was getting into. Then he straightened, meeting Sherlock's eyes first and seeing the will-o'-the-wisp light of insecurity and fear there. But surprisingly, surprisingly he felt sure of himself. Sure and calm. He looked back at Phil and said, "It's fine. I can handle it."


	2. New World

Linda picked John up from the train station at Bury St Edmunds. Linda Woodard, a psychologist and employee of the Suffolk Constabulary. John's contact for the duration of the mission, a nondescript woman around John's age. Ideal for the job. She took John to the small flat that had been rented for him, close to St Anna's Hospital but not on campus. A block of flats, sixth floor, one and a half rooms, furnished. The flat was surprisingly spacious and light. It was on the top floor of the building, and daylight streamed into the space through a large skylight.

John unpacked his suitcase and put away his clothes in the built-in closet. The bed in the sleeping niche was already made. Linda had already left a second set of linens in the cupboard. There were towels in the bathroom and the little kitchen was fully equipped. Linda had taken care of everything. She'd even bought fruit and mineral water.

"I'll just let you get settled in," she said. "See you tomorrow."

John went to the shops first. The supermarket was just around the corner. Food, shower gel (a different one than he usually used, that was stipulated in the assignment), washing-up liquid, some spices, a bottle of wine. John felt like wine. He'd cook a little something that night, drink a glass of wine, maybe read a little or watch television. 

He needed a distraction. He couldn't let himself call Sherlock. No texting either. No contact at all. It was harder than expected. John hadn't thought it would be so difficult for him. He'd already caught himself during the two-and-a-half-hour ride on the train, subconsciously waiting for a text, constantly being tempted to write to Sherlock. But he had a new mobile, a new number that Sherlock didn't even know, a prepaid card registered to John Horton, no contacts entered. A two-and-a-half-hour train ride. It was ridiculous. A ridiculously short time. A ridiculously short distance. A painful vacuum, devoid of information. John hadn't reckoned with this nagging restlessness. Nor with this dependence. Nor with the sense of helplessness his departure from London had left behind in him.

Sherlock had come to the train station with him, an unexpected gesture; perhaps an expression of his unease or concern. They'd stood face to face in front of the gate, hadn't known what to say, given the situation. They'd stood there, facing each other and not known how to go their separate ways. They'd lost track of time. Sherlock had just stood there, closed off, his hands deep in his coat pockets. Their eyes locked on each other. John had opened himself to his friend's gaze, and seen his affection.

"Take care, Sherlock," he'd said, resting his hand on Sherlock's arm for a moment, touching the wool of the coat.

He would have liked to hug him, but Sherlock didn't move. John knew that Sherlock shied away from touch and physical intimacy, and accepted it. The time had got away from them. John had stepped away from Sherlock, turned around, started to leave. 

Sherlock had stopped him: "Wait, John!" He'd held on to him. Pulled him back. His fingers on the edge of the cuff of John's jacket, clinging to it, right next to John's hand. Maybe he'd wanted to reach for John's hand but veered away from it at the last second. Their hands didn't touch.

"Take care of yourself, John." Sherlock's voice was low, wavering.

John had looked into those eyes, as pale as water, seen the fear there, the unrest, the sadness. He'd allowed for it all, accommodated it. Made it clear that he understood. Made it clear that it didn't matter, that none of it mattered. That the only thing that mattered had nothing to do with this. That they didn't need any proof. That they belonged together. However that might be.

Last call for the train. All aboard. John had closed his eyes for a moment, carefully extricated his sleeve from Sherlock's fingers, which still clung firmly to the cloth. One last look, then he'd hurried off.

 

John ate the omelet he'd prepared in the tiny kitchen, a salad too, drank a glass of wine. He checked over his new identification documents, made out to the name of John Horton, committed his fake life story to memory. He washed up, put away the dishes. He'd wanted to watch television, but ended up lying down on the bed and staring at the ceiling. Night had fallen outside, the skylight was black. The flat smelled foreign. The sounds from the nearby street. The gentle hiss of the heating and water. A television was on somewhere. He would have liked to send Sherlock a text. Just two words. That he'd arrived. That everything was fine. But he couldn't. Call him. Hear his voice. John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He missed him.

***

His first day at work in St Anna's went off without a hitch. John had a contract as an assistant on Phil's team, and was accepted right away by the others. He got through his first two neurological operations successfully, albeit simple interventions and only as an observer next to Ashley, who assisted during both surgeries. It was a first for John. High tech surroundings. Equipment and machines he'd never seen before. Specialised endoscopic and microscopic devices, steered down to the nanometre via high-definition screens. The surgical procedures had nothing to do with John's experience or expertise as a doctor.

Phil worked with the same calm and attention he brought to bear in person. There wasn't a single frantic moment. Now and then, Phil would look up from the patient, from the machines, and his bright eyes – glowing even more strikingly through the dark green surgical visor – met Ashley's. Sometimes John's. Then his smile would deepen, just for a moment. His eyes were always smiling, even when he was concentrating on his work. There didn't seem to be anything that could rattle his inner peace.

In the afternoon, John helped on the neurological ICU, participated in meetings, absorbed information and knowledge until he was full. When he fell into bed at night, he was dead tired from all the impressions and encounters, and he became painfully aware that he didn't have anyone he could talk to, who he could share things with, not even silently. The way he and Sherlock sometimes just sat near each other in the living room, each on his own laptop, not speaking, yet together.

He'd eaten lunch with Phil in the cafeteria of St Anna's, and Phil had told him about the club, let him know he'd take John with him the next day. Friday evening. That was always a special evening, the start of the week-end, ideal for new members.

"Why that name? Lucifer's Gardens?" John asked.

"You'll see," Phil replied. "The manor has four gardens, each laid out in one of the cardinal directions. They're dedicated to the four archetypes of masculinity, with corresponding plants."

"Archetypes of masculinity?" John had no idea what that meant.

"On the east is the Lover with the element of water, to the south is the Warrior with the element of earth, the Magician is in the west with the element of air, and the King is to the north with the element of fire," Phil explained. And as John gaped at him with a horrified look, he added, "All according to C.G. Jung. More or less. Might be somewhat off-putting to people who haven't studied it, but you'll see how powerful the gardens are."

"LUCIFER'S Gardens," John said. He emphasised the word Lucifer in a way that the question didn't need to be asked.

"Before the manor was turned into a club, it belonged to a chemistry professor who taught at the local university. He laid out the gardens, experimented with plants and herbal essences. He had a bit of a reputation as an alchemist and a mad scientist. His name was Lucius Krambold. Lucius' Gardens became Lucifer's Gardens at some point. That's all."

Phil's doe-brown, speckled eyes searched John's grey ones, just briefly, gentle and goodnatured. No threat, no force, no judgment. A restrained friendliness. Plumbing the depths down to the nanometre.

"Does that help you?" Phil asked kindly.

"Yeah," John said. "Yes, thanks. The explanation does help. This is all so unfamiliar to me."

"Just let it happen, John," Phil said. "It's probably best if you don't think about it too much. The head only generates confusion. Just have a look at it."

***

The club was on the outskirts of town. A typical country estate. Light-coloured, natural masonry. A tiled roof with gables. Latticework windows. A massive chimney on the gabled side. The facade overgrown with ivy. A gravel courtyard in front of the house. The gardens surrounding it. They were smaller than John had thought they would be. No walls, open, not even a fence around the patch of land. The transition from countryside to garden was so subtle, it was like entering a park without being aware of it. John approached from the east, past a goldfish pond fed by a brook, and realised he was already in the Lover's water garden. He was too early and turned back, went out into the evening fields. Moisture was already gathering in the nearby forest.

John had come by bus, got out at the last station then walked a few minutes. The grain had been cut a while ago. Rotting stumps stood bare in the dusky light. The smell of earth and damp. Mist hovered over the ground. Black birds gathered on the power lines overhead. A string of pearls. An astonishing regularity. Bird after bird. They stood frozen on the wire. A precisely defined distance between them. In a row. One animal next to another. Motionless. Silent. Waiting. Waiting for the trigger. The catalyst. A secret order. 

John pulled his jacket closer. He was cold. He took a few steps down the trail. It led around the property. A path through all four points of the compass. A circle, no border. At least not one he could see. Strange. The path led through the fields, which were clearly being worked. There was no park here, no garden. This was pasture and farmland. The forest to the west. It shimmered blue in the evening light. John turned around and went back. It was starting to get dark. His watch said it was shortly before six. Phil was probably waiting for him.

"Phil Salisbury," John said to the steward who met him in the lobby and asked for a reference.

"Please sign in here while you wait, sir. I'll have someone call Dr Salisbury."

The man pushed a fat, heavy book with a worn cover toward John. It was open to the last few pages, a red ribbon in the crease as a bookmark. Surname, first name, title, specialisation, date, signature. John wrote Horton, John, M.D., medicine. He added the date and signed. Then he flipped through the book, curious. It went back to 1897. There were crosses and dates after the names on the first several pages. Interesting. The date of death of all the registered members was recorded. But not all the way through. Sometimes there was no date next to the cross. Some of the names were struck through, the whole entry, a thin, neat line drawn with a ruler. Apostates? Traitors? Like himself? John went back to his own name and further forward. A few crosses, the last three with recent death dates: Davide Perilli, James McGallagher, Gordon Kelley. Davide was Phil's murdered partner. Gordon Kelley was also one of the murder victims. John wanted to look for the name of the third victim, Peter Moor, but Phil was approaching with a big smile, and he decided to have a closer look at the book later. 

***

John felt at ease in the club. He sat at a round table with scientists from all different specialisations, having a good time. It was fun to talk to intelligent men, to tease and laugh. Everything in the club was so friendly and open and easy-going. The organisation, the rules, the people. John liked Martin straight away. The mathematician was sitting next to him, engaging him in the most entertaining conversation. His dark eyes had an impish gleam. He laughed loud and unabashedly, and had a dark sense of humour that John appreciated. And he was brilliant. Maybe not a genius like Sherlock, but unlike him he was eminently approachable.

"Are you with someone?" he asked John openly.

John hesitated a moment. He hadn't expected that question. Not so soon. The scene with Sherlock came to his mind. He'd asked Sherlock the same thing within 48 hours of meeting him. He hadn't known him well enough at that point to understand how difficult a question like that was for him. John smiled. Then he forced himself to remember his mission, his role at the club. He was an undercover investigator.

"No, I'm not with anyone," he said.

Martin gave him a searching look. His lips curled in a smile. "You hesitated," he said. "And you smiled. You were thinking of someone you love."

John blinked in surprise. A deduction. That irritated him. He couldn't take that. Not from Martin.

"We've separated," John said brusquely. That was the role he had to play. Separated, interested in men in principle but not ready at the moment.

"Are you looking?" Martin asked.

"Looking for what?" John said.

"Friendship," Martin answered. "A man's love. Adventure."

John swallowed. Then he shook his head slowly. "The separation is too recent," he said warily.

"A man?" Martin asked.

John closed his eyes. Damn it! Martin wanted to know every last detail. And John had to play his role, had to keep himself open, allow it. Had to find a killer. He had an assignment. In light of the situation, it would be productive to give a positive answer to the question.

"Yes," he said curtly.

Martin placed a comforting hand on John's arm. "It's okay, John. I just wanted to know before we got involved in anything. It's easier to make things clear from the start than at the end or in the middle, you see."

"And you?" John asked in order to direct the conversation away from himself.

"I'm looking for friendship and love," Martin said. He smiled pensively, and an unexpected sadness was reflected in his black eyes. "But I'm not in a hurry."


	3. The Magician

Saturday. John bought supplies for the coming week at the nearby supermarket, slept in, took time for himself and his assignment, wrote down which people he'd already met and assigned them to St Anna's, the club, or both. He hesitated to add Phil to the list of possible suspects but did it in the end. He thought of Sherlock as he worked. He thought of him whenever he was alone. He felt lost without Sherlock, without a counterpart, even if that counterpart was stubborn and difficult. John briefly considered going to London for a few hours, but then realised that doing so would endanger his mission.

John poked around the town, visited the 11th-century Benedictine abbey, its ruins at any rate, the abbey gate from the 14th century, learned something about the history of the place. Then he decided to use his time to get to know the club a bit better. 

Phil was there, doing paperwork in the tiny club office. He was one of the club's five directors. He gave John unrestricted access to all of the files. John studied the book with the membership entries. The crossed-out names had explicitly cancelled their membership. Not really helpful at the moment.

"All of the victims were killed here in the club," John said as Phil showed him around the gardens that afternoon. "Were you here when the murders took place?"

"Yes."

"When your partner was killed too?"

"Yes," was all Phil said.

"What happened?"

Phil stopped walking. He'd lowered his eyes. They were standing under the oak in the King's garden. 

Phil said, "I already made a detailed statement on all of that."

"Tell me again," John requested. "The memory's a funny thing. Sometimes..."

"I know," Phil broke in curtly.

For the first time since they'd met, just for a fraction of a second, John saw another emotion in Phil's eyes other than joy and peace. Anger. It was gone the next moment. Their eyes met.

"I was in the lounge, discussing spins and microdimensions with some physicists," Phil explained. "Davide was upstairs in the attic space. He was leading a systemic ritual. But he didn't come back to the lounge afterwards, the way he usually did. I waited for him. At some point, Callum came and said there was a problem, that something was wrong with Davide. I rushed up to the ritual chamber."

"Davide was still alive."

"For a few minutes. But he was already unconscious. The poison was fast-acting and potent."

"In the report, it says the poison was a mixture of extracts from plants that grow in these gardens."

"The police have a list of club members who might have knowledge in that area. Mostly physicians and chemists – both kinds. But of course it would be possible for anyone to do the research."

"Who made the list?"

"Myself, Martin, Callum and Gordon."

"The Gordon who was murdered?"

"Yes. Peter was first, then Davide soon after. Gordon was a month later."

"The murders took place over six months ago. Nothing's happened since then?"

"No."

"Did all of the victims take part in these systemic rituals?"

"Yes. This is all in the statement, John."

"I know. Can I join in one of these rituals?"

"Of course. The next public one will be on Tuesday."

"Are they held regularly?"

"No. We don't have a set plan. Whenever one of the spiritual leaders feels like holding a ritual, he simply does it. Most of them go by the phase of the moon, but there's no real schedule."

"How are the dates communicated?" John asked.

"Those who need to know find out by word of mouth. The dates are passed on from one man to another."

"So you never know beforehand who will be there or how many."

"No. We run the ritual with whoever comes. Sight unseen. There's no selection process. Whoever heard about it and reacted to it is who's there."

"Peter died in the gardens. Where exactly?"

Phil walked ahead silently. They went along the narrow trail to the west, to the Magician's garden. Phil went over to the mighty yew tree and pointed to a spot underneath it.

"He was lying here under the yew. We didn't find him until he was already dead. It was at the end of January. The body was frozen. Two men from the club found him when they went walking in the garden shortly before midnight. The moon was full and it was relatively bright out."

"Did a ritual take place that evening?"

"No. Nor on the night Gordon died. We found Gordon in the toilets."

"It says in the report that the poison was very fast-acting. All of the victims had eaten or drunk something shortly beforehand. Tea, a sandwich, whiskey. The police didn't get any further. It could have been anyone who was at the club on those nights. Right?"

"Correct. The killer is still walking free. Probably right here in the club with us. That's why you're here."

Phil's friendly eyes rested on John. That serenity and smile back again, ubiquitous, anchored deep in the doe-brown.

"How important are these archetypes?" John asked.

"They're the four masculine shields," Phil answered. "If you live such that you're surrounded by them, you're complete. Complete within yourself. Complete within your male power. Invulnerable."

"Like you."

"Yes."

"Tell me," John said.

***

_East_  
_The Lover binds himself with creation_  
_Surrender all control, be as boundless as the water_  
_You are capable of complete devotion_  
_Your shield is intuition_  
_Your way in is grief_

_South_  
_The Warrior bears his fear on the tip of his sword_  
_Set limits and be as firm as the earth_  
_You are fearless in the face of change_  
_Your shield is struggle_  
_Your way in is anger_

_West_  
_The Magician extends the boundaries of reality by the dimension of what is possible_  
_Take risks, be as unseen as the air_  
_You perceive things that are concealed between the heavens and the earth_  
_Your shield is power_  
_Your way in is fear_

_North_  
_The King unites the inward with the outward_  
_Join your head and your heart and be as warming as the fire_  
_You open up room for development_  
_Your shield is vision_  
_Your way in is joy_

Curious, John walked around the white wall that stood in the middle of the loft with these texts written on it. The wall rose up high, all the way to the ceiling, and enclosed a round space. The rest of the room outside it comprised a circuit, a kind of stations of the cross, a counterpoint to the angular shape of the room. The round space in the middle was probably a good ten metres across. In each of the four cardinal directions, there was a narrow break in the wall surrounded by words, through which it was possible to enter the inner chamber. There was no other way in. John looked through one of the breaches. It was completely dark inside. All he could see was the other openings, a faint gleam of light invading the space from each point of the compass. It wasn't enough to make anything out. John therefore turned first to the writing on the outside of the wall.

Phil had handed him a key and said, "There's a door in the back of the library. It leads into the inner chambers. You'll find what you're looking for there. Take a look around. But be careful. You're entering sacred space."

So up here is where those strange rituals took place. John walked around the wall, studying the archetypes. Peter had been found in the Magician's garden. The toilets were on the south side, in the Warrior's realm. And Davide had died on the north side of the ritual room, in the King's area. Was it coincidence? If not, then the Lover was missing. A fourth murder was missing. Was it possible? John didn't like that he couldn't discuss the idea with Sherlock. That he couldn't have him at his side. Sherlock would have drawn his initial conclusions by now.

John looked for a light switch to illuminate the round space in the middle, but couldn't find one. He lit one of the candles that stood on a small table in the corridor, and slipped into the darkness through one of the cracks in the wall. A curious atmosphere. John stopped where he was and raised the candle to the wall. It was white and painted with strange – probably magical – symbols. John took a couple of cautious steps towards the centre. The space appeared to be empty. Soft, cork flooring. 

Suddenly, John had to hold back a scream: there, in the middle of the room, lay a man on the floor, facedown, arms and legs splayed out in all directions. John's heart was beating wildly. He went to the body and shone his light on it. It was Martin.

"Martin!"

John immediately knelt down, set the candle on the floor and placed his fingers against Martin's neck. He was warm. John felt a slow, strong pulse beneath his fingers. Martin moved, turned, seemed to emerge from a deep sleep, and stared at John. His black eyes glowed in the light of the candle.

"Martin. Is everything all right?"

Martin looked at John in astonishment. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"That's what I was going to ask you!"

Martin sat up. "I'm doing my spiritual exercises," he said. "As I do every Saturday afternoon. You woke me from a trance." And after a moment, when he'd collected himself, he added, "These rooms are locked. How did you get in here?"

"Phil gave me the key," John said apologetically. "I wanted to know more about the archetypes."

"Okay..." Martin said. His tone of voice made it clear that he found the whole situation extremely unusual. He seemed to be thinking. Then he said, "If you want, I'll show you the archetypes."

"Sure."

The black eyes searched John's. "I'd like to show you dynamically. I'll need to touch you though. Is that okay with you?"

John wasn't sure. He didn't like being touched by other men. Aside from Sherlock, perhaps. That would have been all right. But it had never come up with Sherlock. And Martin? John was curious about the archetypes. It made sense to be touched if they were going to be doing dynamic exercises. That was acceptable. Plus, he had a mission to complete. And he could break it off and walk away at any point if it became unpleasant. He decided to do it.

"Yes, that's fine," John said. 

Martin smiled. "You're on the path of the Magician at the moment," he said. "I'll be interested to see where that takes us."

They both stood up and left the circular ritual space. Martin extinguished the candle and put it back on the little table. They first walked around the outer circuit again, going through the descriptions of the archetypes. 

"The Lover is imprinted in early childhood," Martin explained. "He's the shield of primitive trust. The Warrior awakens as soon as the boy is weaned from his mother. He recognises his needs and achieves independence. The Magician is formed in early manhood. It's all about moving past your own limits. The King is the man in maturity. He unites heart and mind and stands at the peak of his strength. We carry all of these aspects inside us. We are infant, boy, young man, and adult in one. That is the systemic departure point. We are a system of the development of our souls. Is the theory clear?" Martin smiled.

"The theory, yes," John said.

"Then let's leave behind the outward and explore the inward," Martin said.

He took John by the hand, like a young child, and slipped through the early childhood cleft of the Lover, into the darkness of the round chamber.

"Spin around," Martin said once they were in the centre.

John spun around, letting himself be guided by Martin. Martin remained in constant physical contact with him. It was pitch black in the centre of the space. When Martin stopped his motion, John was completely disorientated. He saw darkness, four slits with a small amount of scattered light. Martin held him firmly by both shoulders from behind.

"Now turn very slowly in a circle and feel which direction holds the greatest power," Martin said. "I'll come closer and guide you as you turn."

Martin put his arms around John from behind. Just lightly. Held him loosely. John turned, turned himself once around his own axis, tried to get in touch with what he was feeling. It was astonishing, the spaces he passed through. His body reflected them: tingling, heat, cold, shortness of breath, dizziness, the throb of his pulse, calm, weakness, strength. There were two directions in which he sensed power and stability.

"Very good. You are a strong Warrior and Lover," Martin said. "And now try to find your weakest side."

John spun around again. It was obvious. There was one point at which his knees buckled. The longer he stood facing that direction, the more his legs shook. He could barely hold himself up anymore. Martin's grip became stronger.

"Just sit down if you can't stand any longer," Martin said.

John lowered himself to the cork floor. Martin sat down behind him, one hand on John's shoulder.

"What do you feel?" Martin asked.

John was confused. He didn't know. It was just that quivering feebleness that had made him sit. There was grief. And desperation. And fear. John was having trouble breathing. Something was choking him. He felt as if he'd been left behind.

"It's the Magician," Martin said softly. "It's the acknowledgment of an alternate reality. What are you missing here, John?"

Sherlock. Sherlock was missing. John knew it precisely at the same moment Martin asked. John bit his lips. He didn't answer. He was seized by a sense of bewilderment. Bewilderment and an unexpectedly painful longing for Sherlock. Sherlock. His presence was so strong. Sherlock. John fancied that if he reached out his hand, he could touch Sherlock in the darkness of the room.

"Oh!" Martin gasped, struggling for air for a moment. "You're compensating the magician through your partner. Do you feel it?"

John didn't feel anything other than Sherlock. Sherlock, who seemed to be sitting before him in the dark, waiting for him. A vibrating, alluring presence. All he needed to do was reach out his hand...

"Stop! Stay within yourself, John," Martin whispered urgently. "Stay entirely within yourself. Centre yourself."

John flinched, pulled back into himself immediately, into his own weakness and loneliness. What was happening here? What was he doing? Bloody hell! What had he got himself into? He felt Martin's hand rubbing his back, a warm, probing pressure. It was pleasant. He leaned into it. He felt Martin's fist in the small of his back, hard knuckles burrowing into the flesh to one side of his spine. It hurt. John moved forward to escape it, but Martin wrapped his arm around John's lower body from behind and pulled him carefully yet firmly into the counterpressure of his fist. A strong, tender pain shot through John's body when the energy point reacted to the pressure. John gasped and stiffened immediately. Martin held onto him firmly, didn't ease up, pushed his knuckles into John's body.

"Breathe," he said quietly.

John breathed, tried to relax. The pain almost made him pass out. Then it dissolved, suddenly, simply drained away. Martin released the pressure of his fist, took it away. Two heartbeats later a strong heat flooded John's body, inundating him with brutal intensity. A flaming wave of arousal shot into him, setting him on fire without warning. Martin let go, moved away from him, but stayed seated beside him, one hand on his shoulder. He was breathing hard. He was aroused too.

"It's your partner," Martin said. "He's the Magician. You're still connected to him. Do you feel it now?"

John was panting. Oh yes, he felt it. He was filled with heat and desire. His entire body burned and quivered. His genitals were throbbing painfully, swelling in his trousers. The unexpected lust, out of the blue like that, almost robbed him of his senses. His body writhed, tormented, and begged for relief. Sherlock. Why couldn't he reach him, touch him, hug him, kiss him, make love to him? Sherlock. His heart pleaded and sighed and cried for Sherlock. John moaned and gasped. His body threatened to burn up, his heart was screaming.

Martin moved closer to him, ran his hand down John's back, tried to comfort him, to cool him down. John tried to calm down, but he was ablaze with desire. He was passing it on to Martin as well, couldn't help it. Martin hugged him from behind, pulled John into his lap. John could feel Martin's erection against his back. They were both wheezing, breathing heat.

"I can release you in your partner's place if you want," Martin whispered. "You decide."

Hot breath in John's ear. John gasped. The offer sucked him into a vortex of lust. Sherlock. If it happened, then with Sherlock. He couldn't do this to Sherlock. He would never be able to look him in the eye again. Never. He couldn't love Sherlock and have sex with Martin. John struggled doggedly against his own body. Martin didn't do anything, just held him, waiting, struggling with his own arousal. But it didn't work. It was as if the chamber were breathing the heat in and out with them, as if everything in the magical darkness were working toward what needed to happen.

"I'm not your partner," Martin whispered. "I'm just his proxy. That's important. We both know it. But I can't cool us off any more, John. If this is the only path, then take it."

John turned around, fast and desperate, grasped Martin with both hands, buried himself in the arms of the unfamiliar man, let himself be pulled into his lap, cock to cock. He had no strength left to fight, surrendered himself to the flow, capitulated, gave in to what was happening. Powerless. He sought Martin's lips, trembling, forced his way between them. Martin's hands on his neck, in his hair. They thrust against each other. Martin stroked John, placed his hand on his stiff cock, caressed it. John reached between Martin's legs, touched an aroused male member for the first time in his life with intent, squeezed and rubbed it, felt the ripple he triggered, the feedback that immediately rebounded in his own groin. John's body found release in a powerful, uncontrolled orgasm. But his heart was painful and burning. Sherlock. Black agony rose inside him, into his throat, his eyes. John wept. He lay in Martin's arms in the darkness of the ritual space and wept.

Martin gave him time. He simply held onto John and waited.

"Are you here, John?" he asked after a while, once John had recovered a bit and moved away from him. "Are you back to yourself? Are you here in the room next to me? Is your mind clear? Answer me."

"I'm here," John said.

"Good," Martin said matter-of-factly. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

"Everything that happens in here has nothing to do with me. We're in a ritual space. We're in your subconscious. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I stood in for your partner. You haven't separated from him, John. Your soul is deeply enmeshed with his, and your body is burning for him. This is something you're going to have to look into. Do you understand?"

"I understand," John said dully. He wanted to get up but Martin held him back.

"You're leaving here as a King," he said firmly. "We're going to complete the path."

Martin kept working with John as if nothing had happened. They stood up together and turned toward the King's shield.

When John left the ritual room later, he felt tired but surprisingly light. He walked out through the King's opening with his head held high, and despite his exhaustion, felt as if he'd been strengthened.

John took a taxi back to his little flat. He took a long, hot shower. Then he ate something, changed his clothes, and drove back to the club. To his surprise, there was no question in his mind about it. Even if he ran into Martin again, he felt strong enough to simply accept what had happened and not analyse it any further. He kept thinking about the conversation with Martin. The fact that the Magician's shield was so weak in him, that he was compensating for it through Sherlock. He needed Sherlock. That wasn't good, John realised that much. The goal was to keep all of the archetypical shields in balance, to approach your partner free and clear. Independent. Of your own free will. Solid in each of the shields. At full strength.

John stopped short at that thought. He was totally falling for this archetype mumbo-jumbo. Phil and Martin had just roped him in and assimilated him. He'd stumbled onto some male ego self-discovery trip. Where he was supposed to be undercover, investigating a triple murder. He wished Sherlock were there. Sherlock the Magician, who needed him to be his eastern shield the same way John needed Sherlock in the west. That much had become clear to John. It was mutual. Sherlock had the same problem with him that he did with Sherlock. Both of them needed the other to live their life fully.


	4. Difficult Moments

John was working in the neurological ICU at St Anna's Hospital. Lory, the consultant in charge of the department, was brash and competent, in addition to having a good sense of humour. She taught John everything he needed to know. He liked her. And if it hadn't been for his mission and the corresponding necessity for his identity to be oriented towards men, he would have gone out with her once in a while; not only that, he would have hooked up with her and tried to forget about the club. 

But as it was, John was at Lucifer's Gardens almost every night, even if it was just for a quick nightcap following a long day at work. He usually met up with Martin, Phil or Callum. In time, he also came to know Mike, Chris and Geoffrey from the technical college. And of course the doctors from St Anna's, who often spent time at the club: Oscar, Ralf, Darian, Seal. His favourites to talk to were Ciril and Bernie, however, an astronomer and a linguist. They were young and together and didn't try to hide it. They belonged together and lived what that meant to the fullest. That both gave John a certain sense of security and fascinated him. He enjoyed it greatly when Ciril and Bernie sat on the curved corner bench at the discussion table, one or two men between them – which happened quite often due to the constant coming and going at the table. They would both rest their arms on the back of the bench, behind the backs of the other men, and let their fingers touch and play with each other continuously on the wooden seat back, for all to see, while they participated actively in the lively discussions on various highly complex topics. John liked that. He imagined it could be like that with Sherlock too, and he sensed that was his dream, somewhere deep down. 

Martin was the one who remained closest to John, thought. They talked a lot, laughed and had fun. They were also physically close. Martin was a physical person who used touch as a means of communication. He sat close to men he liked. He put his hands on their shoulders or backs. He rested his arm unabashedly around John, squeezed him, even took him by the hand once in a while when pulling him to the bar or somewhere else. John let him. It was unusual, but okay with him. He liked being touched. It didn't scare him anymore, now that there was no sexual tension between him and Martin. Maybe simply because he didn't let there be. Maybe because he absolutely forbade himself from following up on the events in the ritual room in any way, shape or form. But what had happened there wasn't forgotten. Not for John. He was ashamed and kicked himself over it. While Martin didn't seem to have a problem with it and could draw a clear line between the ritual and reality, it continued to be an issue for John for a while, including in his daily contact with Martin.

There was one incisive moment that gave John serious doubts. Two or three days after the ritual incident, they were sitting together in the club. At the round table like they almost always did, Martin right next to John, so close they were touching. At some point during the evening – John didn't know when or why – they'd looked at each other, their eyes meeting and lingering, deep and long. Heat in Martin's dark eyes. The heat of Martin's body. They had found John, washed over him and filled him. He'd felt it, a new, exciting sensation. Temptation. He'd torn his gaze away from the other man's, confused, flustered and shocked. 

Martin had smiled and said to him: "What happened in the ritual room had nothing to do with me. But this does. You're always welcome, you know."

Martin's voice was soft and inviting. John had teetered; he'd teetered for a long moment. And in those fractions of seconds, he'd understood that he longed for the touch of another man. And that man was Sherlock. But Sherlock was all theory. Martin was here, present, in the flesh, making an offer. He liked him. John had struggled with himself, an unexpectedly fierce struggle against that open-ended offer. But then he'd realised what it meant, these depencencies, his life with Sherlock, his mission. 

So he'd pulled himself together and said, "I know, Martin. But I can't. I'm sorry."

"You should contact your ex, John. You're fooling yourself. Fix things. You're going to make yourself sick otherwise."

John had nodded. Sherlock. Martin was right: he needed to fix things. Sometime. But not now. Sherlock stood between him and Martin. It was good like that. Sherlock was his safety net, his shield. John could hide behind him and protect himself from Martin's offer that way. He had a reason, an excuse. It was perfect. He'd created a kind of emotional alibi for himself without even meaning to. It made his task easier. Sherlock existed as a concrete factor in the background, even here with his false identity.

***

After a ten-day rotation on the neurological ICU, John had the techniques down pat and won Lory and Phil's professional trust. He was scheduled for his first night shift. John was updating patient files in the doctors' lounge. He'd just done a check of all the rooms and found everything in order. There weren't any critical cases. They'd gone easy on him for the first night, kept the risk factors to a minimum. John had taken advantage of the situation and looked around in Phil's office. The key to the file cabinet was in the desk drawer, as expected, under some papers. Standard hiding place. 

An archive of old patient files. John looked through them. Peter Moor. The first murder victim. John pulled the file out. Peter had been a patient of Phil's. For many years. Decades. He'd have to ask Phil about that. Gordon Kelley. Interesting. The third and last murder victim. Gordon had also been one of Phil's patients, albeit twelve years ago, and only for a short period for a single surgery. John looked for more names, but didn't see any more he knew.

A binder with court files. Phil had been sued three times because a patient had died either during or shortly after surgery. Acquitted every time. The first time – oh! The defense attorney had been Davide Perilli. Other solicitors for the remaining cases. Was that how they'd met?

John closed the file cabinet again and poked around the office. There was a safe. John looked for the key to it. The usual hiding places. Bookcase, vases, behind pictures, all of the sills higher than eye level, all of the filing trays. Phil didn't seem to take much care with hiding things. John didn't find the key, but he did find a badge in one of the filing trays. It didn't open the safe, but it did give him access to the part of the drug cabinet that was normally off-limits. John opened the cabinet and took quick stock, made a mental note of a couple of unfamiliar medications in order to look them up later. It was time for him to make his next round, so he left the rooms he shouldn't have been in in the first place, planning to continue his investigation during his next night shift, having a look at Oscar, Ralf, Darian and Seal as well.

John was back in the doctors' lounge, completely immersed in his papers and notes. He didn't think anything of it when a light knock sounded at the wide-open door to the room. He thought it was the orderly. But when he lifted his head, all the air whooshed out of his lungs. He leapt to his feet.

"Sherlock!"

"Good evening, John." Sherlock entered the lounge without missing a beat. "I need to talk to you," he said. "Will we have privacy here?"

John still hadn't recovered from the sight of the man who stood directly in front of him, dark coat, the collar turned up, his hands in its pockets. The pale, water-coloured eyes looking him over. Friendly, affectionate, maybe even a little mocking in light of John's shock.

"Where did you come from?" John asked unnecessarily.

"London." Sherlock smiled indulgently.

"And what are you doing here?"

"Visiting you."

John smiled. It made him happy to hear Sherlock say that, even if John realised Sherlock hadn't come all the way to Bury St Edmunds solely in order to see him.

"Visiting me? At the hospital in the middle of the night?" he asked, a warm-hearted, teasing jab.

Sherlock smirked. "Do you have access to Phil's office?" he asked straight out. "He's moving further up on our list of suspects."

"OUR list? Who's 'our'?" John asked suspiciously.

"My list. The Suffolk Constabulary's. We've assembled a team under the direction of Linda Woodard. We're evaluating your information. It's working out quite well."

John was surprised. "So you're also working on the case," he stated.

"Of course. What did you think?"

"Why didn't I know about it?" John's chagrin was clear in his tone.

"You're undercover. The less you know, the less you can give away," Sherlock said. When he saw John's expression, he added, "Not intentionally, of course, but you never know what situation you might find yourself in. Especially in that funny club with their funny rituals."

John tried to swallow down the anger rising in him. Sherlock was here. That was a positive thing. Even if he'd been left out of the loop again.

"Are you staying?" John asked.

"I'm going back to London. Phil knows me. It's too iffy. He shouldn't know that I'm involved."

"Phil's at a convention in the States."

"I know. I'm going to take advantage of his absence," Sherlock said. "Can you show me his office?"

John marched out, not saying anything more. He still felt like he'd been deceived, couldn't just sweep the feeling under the rug. Here he was, sent to the front lines but left in the dark. He went into Phil's office, opened the drawer and put the key on top of the desk.

"Filing cabinet," he said. "Two of the vics were Phil's patients. Davide defended him during his first malpractice suit." 

John fished the badge out of the filing tray and held it out to Sherlock. "Drug cabinet," he said. "You have twenty minutes before the orderly comes by here on her next round."

Sherlock gave John a considering look. "Bothered?" he asked.

"Does that surprise you?" John retorted.

They watched each other in silence.

"Your involvement wasn't planned, was it?" John said. "You forced your way in."

"I didn't want to leave you alone."

"I know you too well to believe a word of that," John said coolly.

He couldn't entirely smother his disappointment. He left the office and went back to the doctors' lounge, where he finished his work in silence. A scant quarter of an hour later, Sherlock was standing in front of him again.

"You're wrong, John," he said softly.

John looked up from where he was working. "About what?" he asked.

"I really am here because of you. I'm worried about you."

Their eyes met. Sherlock's pale eyes were tender and uncertain. John didn't know what to do or say. It was an unexpected admission.

"You're right," Sherlock continued. "I inserted myself. I didn't want to leave you alone." And following a brief hesitation: "I couldn't sleep."

John swallowed. He looked into those light eyes, which had now become more certain, warmer. Sherlock's words were so unaccustomed that John had no idea what he might say in return. And so he didn't say anything, instead meeting his friend's gaze, allowing him to see that the words touched him and made him happy.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he finally said. "I missed you too."

Sherlock smiled, a thoughtful expression, and John smiled back. The night shift nurse came in a few minutes later. It was time for Sherlock to go.

"Where are you staying tonight?" John asked.

"I don't know yet."

John reached into his pocket, fished out the key to his flat and tossed it to Sherlock without warning. Unfazed, Sherlock caught it and promptly stashed it in the pocket of his coat.

"Thank you," he said without taking his eyes off John.

"Do you need the address?" John asked.

"No."

"Didn't think so." They grinned at each other.

"Studio flat," Sherlock said.

"With an alcove," John amended. "And don't you dare use my bed."

John had meant it as a joke, but Sherlock's smile faded. He lowered his eyes for a moment, looking at the floor, before meeting John's gaze again. Holding it.

"I'll do my best," he said in an unexpectedly low voice. The silk in his tone irritated John just as much as the fact that Sherlock wasn't making any move to leave.

"What?" John said.

Sherlock hesitated. He stood there, haggard and withdrawn, and lifted his shoulders as if he were cold. He didn't look at John. He looked lost, the way he stood there. A tall, dark figure in the bright, sterile, neon-lit surroundings. He swallowed, glanced up at John. But then he looked away again and said uncertainly, "His name's Martin, isn't it?"

John froze. His heart started to race. He gripped the back of his chair to keep himself steady. He felt dizzy. He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the edge of the desk in front of him. Turmoil inside. All his words gone. He wasn't able to formulate a single coherent thought. He knew Sherlock was watching him, deducing; that he knew the effect the question had on John. Memories, panic, fear, shame, a guilty conscience.

"There's a man with that name at the club who I get on with," John said, once he'd collected himself somewhat.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just stood there. Stood there motionless, staring at the ground in front of him. He raised his head, his gaze crossing John's. Just briefly, an unsteady flicker. Then he turned away again.

"I was at the club," he said.

John closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. He wanted to ask when, wanted to know what Sherlock had seen, wanted to explain. But before he could say anything, Sherlock had turned and left the room. John leapt up and ran down the corridor after him. Sherlock strode briskly along the dimly lit hallway. A dark figure. Ramrod straight.

"Sherlock!" John cried.

But Sherlock didn't stop or even turn. He simply lifted one hand as he kept walking. It wasn't clear whether the gesture meant 'till later' or 'leave me alone'. 

***

The birds gather on the overhead power line in the cool of the morning. Bird after bird. The string of pearls has grown. There are hundreds now. They sit silent and frozen. An orderly, black row. Suddenly, excitement: as if a breeze touched them, setting off a wave of unrest. A fraction of a second. Upheaval. They fly up, a trigger passed along through the rows. A black cloud lifts into the morning sky with a roar of wings. Here and there a caw. The birds fall into formation while in flight, a spiral figure drawn as if by an invisible hand. They wheel around, climbing higher and higher. Then the sudden return. As if struck by paralysis, single birds sink down and the others follow, settling on the line overhead as they were before, bird after bird, hundreds of them. Cawing, a din. It fades away after a while. The birds align themselves. Silence falls. An even distance between them. A mute, black string of pearls in the cool of the autumn morning.

John got home around eight. His nerves were shot, he'd fretted the rest of the night, second-guessing himself, struggling against panic and his own fears. He'd even thought about going after Sherlock, trying to find him. But his duty as a doctor, his responsibility towards his patients, had weighed more heavily.

John didn't have a key to the flat. Sherlock had it. He didn't know where Sherlock was, how he was doing. He expected he wouldn't be able to get in. But the door to the flat wasn't locked. John hung his jacket up on the hook, slipped out of his shoes. Sherlock wasn't there. The bed had been used and was unmade. Sherlock had slept there. That eased John's mind. At least he hadn't run off recklessly. 

John drank a glass of water, undressed, got into the shower and let the hot water beat down on him. He was exhausted. More emotionally than physically, but he still felt completely drained. He needed sleep, peace and quiet. When he started to dry himself, he found the towel was damp. Sherlock must have used it shortly beforehand. John ignored it, rubbed himself dry as best he could and went straight to bed. It smelled like Sherlock. John huddled down under the covers and tried to relax. Sherlock had slept here. He'd kept the key. That was something positive, at least.


	5. The Ex

John got ready to go to the club. It was evening and Sherlock hadn't returned. John had waited, but finally had to admit there was no point. He didn't know where Sherlock was, what he was doing or what his plans were. And so he set out on his own for Lucifer's Gardens. As he did almost every evening.

It was Friday and the club was bursting at the seams. Martin was there, along with Ciril and Bernie and everyone else. John sat down with them. He was restless. He was sure Sherlock was going to come to the club too, and he had no idea how he was going to deal with that. He avoided Martin. He didn't want Sherlock to see him with Martin again. But it got later and later, and Sherlock still didn't show up, and John became careless. He'd drunk some whiskey and felt a little tipsy. At some point, he allowed Martin to get close again. In fact, he sought him out. Martin had become an important factor in his life. Martin's warmth, his scent, his strength. Martin's dark eyes, his smile. Was he starting to fall in love? 

The shock of the notion was like a bolt of lightning in John's gut. Dismay. John looked into those black eyes and knew he'd been fooling himself. That he stood on the threshhold, that he'd been there the whole time. That Martin was an option. Not for a lifetime, but for a fling. Not for the future, but for the present, the pulsating, very real moment. It was possible with Martin, John realised that right away. He could have sex with him. That was all. No complications. Just sex. His body longed for it. Sex. Free. Open. Just give in. Let it happen. Enjoy. Enjoy it with no strings attached. An alien concept where Sherlock was concerned. Why couldn't he overcome this, why did it crop up again and again? His body was a danger when its needs were unmet. He needed to get away.

Where was Sherlock? Damn it! John's nerves were on edge. He needed to get out. He needed to break it off: everything. His mission here, life at the club, Martin, everything. He needed to go back to London, to Sherlock, needed to forget Martin, to cut him out of his life. And he needed to approach Sherlock. Needed to clarify things between them. Lay all his cards on the table. No matter what happened. He was lying to himself. Martin was right. It was either Sherlock or it would be some other man later on. But things couldn't continue like this. He was playing at the edge of a cliff he hadn't thought was there. John felt panic rise in him. Abort. The decision became even more firm. He needed to get out of here. Now!

Martin put his arm around John, warm and strong, pulled him in closer. Demonstrative.

"Someone's watching you pretty intensely," he whispered in John's ear. "Is that a new admirer? Or is it your ex?"

John looked up. Sherlock stood at the bar. He stood there in the midst of the crowd, leaning back against the bar, a glass in one hand, watching him. Sherlock. Finally. John twisted out of Martin's embrace and went across the room to the bar, pushed his way through the noise of the Friday evening bustle, past chairs, tables and men, to Sherlock. He went straight to him, squeezed in next to him at the bar, pushing aside the other men standing there, let himself drop forward with his stomach against the wooden bartop, leaned on his elbows and buried his face in his hands for several seconds. He was breathing hard, as if he'd just run a sprint. John felt like he was in hopelessly over his head. He wanted nothing more than to crawl away and hide somewhere, to cry, scream, anything to free him from this situation.

Sherlock turned to him. "John? Is everything all right?" He sounded both worried and unsure.

John took a deep breath and took his hands away from his face. "Yeah," he said softly. "It's good..." He paused. "… that you're here."

Sherlock didn't say anything. John ordered mineral water on the rocks with a twist and took a big sip. The liquid flowed down his throat, leaving a palpably cold trail in his body. He felt refreshed. Lemon. Good. He was thirsty.

"What am I saving you from?" Sherlock asked.

He'd turned around so he stood facing the bar as well now, close to John, right up against him in the throng, shoulder to shoulder. He leaned on the bartop next to John, turned to his friend. John didn't look up. He held the icy glass, wet with condensation, in both hands, grateful for the cold emanating from it. His pulse was still racing. It felt good to be close to Sherlock. The familiar voice. The security.

"From myself," he answered.

"Martin?"

John closed his eyes. Then he shook his head reflectively. "You," he said.

He still didn't look up, not yet ready to meet Sherlock's water-pale eyes, to expose himself to his gaze. He wasn't sure what he would find in those familiar eyes, what awaited him in light of his admission. They stood there without looking at each other for a long time. John could feel Sherlock's deep breaths through the contact between their shoulders. The warmth.

John eventually set down the glass and straightened up. Sherlock followed suit. They stood facing each other, leaning sideways against the bar now, looking at each other, looking into each other's eyes. Uncertainty flashed in Sherlock's icy blue for several seconds before his gaze focused on John. 

"Whatever's going on between you and Martin..." Sherlock started.

"Martin's the wrong one," John interrupted him flat out, impatient, not willing to go into it.

When Sherlock fell silent, John added, more quietly, "You know that too, Sherlock. This isn't about him."

Their eyes met. Then Sherlock asked something John hadn't expected at all, sober and cautious: "Why does it work with Martin and not with me?"

The question threw John, and for several heartbeats he didn't even understand what Sherlock meant, nor what he should answer. Then he took a deep breath. His pulse was pounding and his heart fluttering anxiously when he said in a low voice, "Touch me, Sherlock."

Astonishment in Sherlock's expression. No shock. They looked at each other. Sherlock was breathing fast. But he didn't try to sidestep. He stayed there, stayed close to John, in the midst of the hubbub and noise of the club. He seemed to be thinking. John gave him time. Sherlock lowered his eyes. Then he took a deep breath, inhaled and exhaled. He looked up, lifted his hand. Hesitant. The tips of his fingers touched John's hand where it rested on the bartop, stroked the back of it. The touch rippled through John's entire body, taking his breath away. Their eyes met. Sherlock's confused. His lips parted. He was breathing fast and hard. He swallowed. His fingers were still caressing John's hand, feeling their way in between his fingers. John placed his other hand on top and stopped the touches that aroused him so much he couldn't allow them in public.

"That," John said softly, his voice raw, "is why touching you isn't so simple. It has consequences. My body reacts to you."

They watched each other. Sherlock's hand closed warmly around John's, accepted the interruption of his caresses without breaking contact. John took his other hand away, the one he'd used to stop him. They held each other's gaze, their hands intertwined. Neither of them made a move to relinquish the contact. John couldn't parse what was going on in Sherlock's eyes. Whether it was confusion or recognition, fear or agreement. Or both. All he had was the facts – astonishing enough in themselves: Sherlock was leaving his hand in John's. Not only that, but Sherlock was holding onto it. Affectionate pressure from his hard, sinewy fingers.

Sherlock lowered his head. And there in the midst of the crowded bar, his forehead touched John's. A cautious experiment. John leaned his forehead against his friend's. Deliberate, no chance of it being a coincidence. They rested against each other, forehead to forehead. Their breath between them. Heat. Togetherness. A closed-off space of mutual awareness. The noise of the club room fading away. Everyone else shut out. Just the two of them. Breathing. John closed his eyes. Sherlock's scent. His hand. Closeness. Sherlock. 

John lifted his head. He didn't know why, maybe some intuition. Maybe the subconscious desire to touch Sherlock's mouth. A movement set off by the turmoil, the heat. He raised his head and his lips grazed Sherlock's. It wasn't a kiss. There was no consciously driven intent. John's lips barely touched Sherlock's mouth, just a whisper. Lip brushing lip. Fleeting. Shock at the same moment as it happened, a jolt of heat through his entire body, Sherlock's surprised gasp, the strong reaction of his body, wiry fingers digging into John's hand. John immediately put in the reverse gear, rested his forehead against Sherlock's again. Agitated. But safe. Close. Breath. Just breath and closeness. Their hands together.

"Looks like you two got bit hard," Martin said.

John straightened up, immediately moved away from Sherlock. But Sherlock kept holding his hand, even when John removed it from the bartop. Sherlock wasn't letting go. John took note of it with surprise. 

Martin smiled. Smiled at Sherlock. "You must be John's ex," he said.

Sherlock smiled back into Martin's dark eyes. "No point denying it now," he replied.

Martin's gaze transferred to John. Rested on his eyes for several long seconds. Maybe it was hurt, maybe a moment of sadness in his black eyes. Just briefly, before Martin turned back to Sherlock and said, "You wanted a systemic ritual from me. Still interested?"

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"No," said John.

Sherlock and John exchanged a look. Martin lowered his gaze for a moment. Then he looked up and met John's eyes.

"What are you afraid of, John?" he asked directly. "The truth?"

The question went beyond John's ability to answer.

"It's always the truth," Martin mused, "what you see in the ritual. The only question is whether you can handle it or not."

"You're a mathematician?" Sherlock said.

"Yes. So?"

"You're a mathematician and you lead these spiritual rituals?"

Martin's dark eyes searched Sherlock's blue ones, pale as water. Then he said, "You're a chemist and solve criminal cases. If you can find a contradiction there, either with you or with me, then show me the proof."

They stared at each other. "Intelligence, intuition and sensuality aren't in conflict with each other, Sherlock Holmes." Martin emphasised the name as if it were a victory to know it. "Or do you have a different opinion?"

Sherlock seemed to have clammed up. They both fell silent, Sherlock and Martin. John stood to the side, confused. He didn't understand what was going on here.

"You make mistakes, Sherlock. Not because your emotions get in the way, but because you don't accept the truth," Martin said.

"What truth?"

Martin looked Sherlock over. "If you don't know that," he said lightly, "then I'll teach you tomorrow at one o'clock in the ritual room."

"I'll be there," Sherlock said.

Martin nodded. His eyes sought out John's, his hand brushed down John's arm. "Take care of yourself, John," he said softly. Then he turned away and left the other two standing at the bar.

"How does Martin know who you are?" John asked abruptly.

"I don't know." Sherlock was clearly irritated.

"This is dangerous, Sherlock. For both of us."

"I know."

"Damn it! You blew our cover! You're endangering my entire mission! Damn it all! Why did you come here?"

Sherlock's blue gaze found John's grey one. "Have you forgot already?" he asked quietly.

John closed his eyes. They were still holding hands. Sherlock wasn't letting go. Neither was he. No, he hadn't forgot. The struggle against Martin's temptation. The sense of safety since Sherlock had arrived. But he was still annoyed.

"Martin won't spread it around," Sherlock said. "Anyway, we could also be here privately. Phil is the only one who knows we're conducting an investigation."

"Three murders and Sherlock Holmes is in the building. Private, right. Pure coincidence," John scoffed.

"Martin won't betray us," Sherlock repeated.

"How can you be so sure?"

Sherlock stared off into the distance. "I can't," he admitted.

***

A short time later, they were sitting in a taxi on the way to John's flat. Both of them silent on the back seat. Sherlock had let go of John's hand. But they still sat shoulder to shoulder, leaning closely against each other. The closeness came from Sherlock. It was as if John's request that he touch him were still in effect, as if it had been a request with no end date. John thought about that while he became aware of the heat emanating from Sherlock's body and the unconventional feeling of happiness that Sherlock's touch released in him. Sherlock sat beside him, touching him. He was clearly worried that Martin knew his – and by extension John's – identity.

They went up to the flat together. Sherlock hung back at the door for a moment, irresolute. Then once John had closed the door behind them, he said, "John. I'm going to give it to you now. I can't judge the risk anymore. I don't know what we're going to be facing." He held his hand out flat to John. Two ampoules and two disposable syringes lay on it.

"What's this?" John asked.

"The antidote."

"You have an antidote?" John reached for one of the ampoules, astonished. It held a miniscule amount of a clear fluid.

"It needs to be injected intravenously within the first twenty minutes," Sherlock said. "After that it's too late."

"Where did you get this?"

"I developed it, together with Molly. It hasn't been tested. I'm not sure of the side effects. But it's better than simply dying without having tried."

John glanced at Sherlock. Then he nodded and took one of the ampoules and one of the syringes.

"Take both," Sherlock said. "I have four of them."

John took the ampoules and syringes and stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket.

"I hope we won't need them," he said.

"I hope so too."

John hung his jacket on the hook and took off his shoes. Sherlock stood there, undecided. 

"What is it?" John asked.

"Can I stay here tonight?" Sherlock asked, unexpectedly bashful.

"Of course. Why are you even asking? We live together back in London."

"But we have two beds there."

That made John smirk. "I think we'll figure something out."


	6. The Grand Master

John entered Lory's number for what must have been the twentieth time. He'd already sent texts and left messages on her voice mail. He'd been trying to reach her ever since 7 a.m. She simply wasn't picking up. Damn! John's shift at St Anna's began at 3 p.m. and Sherlock hadn't let himself be talked down from going through the systemic ritual at 1 p.m. Lory needed to cover for him, or else find someone to relieve him by noon at the latest. He'd also called Maggie and Penelope, but neither of them could do it. 

His only hope was Seal. His shift started at 1 p.m. in the nursing unit, but he could take on the rest of John's shift too for the last two hours. It was Saturday, there weren't any operations scheduled, and there were only two patients currently in ICU, neither of them really critical. Seal wouldn't have much to do in the neurosurgical care unit anyway. And it was just for two hours. Of course it was always possible that an emergency would come in. But they could call him if that happened.

John tried to reach Seal, but he couldn't get him either. It was just past noon. Damn it! Sherlock was going to be setting out soon and John couldn't get away. He was agitated. He'd left his friend asleep in the early morning hours to go to the hospital. Sherlock had slept in his bed, fitfully, but at least he'd slept. The night had been short enough. For John as well. He'd tried unsuccessfully to talk Sherlock out of the ritual. But Sherlock had dismissed it as inconsequential, seeing it as an opportunity to gather information on Martin. The fact that Martin had recognised him preoccupied him far more than any rituals. He hadn't been able to figure out how, or deduce it, and that wouldn't give him any peace. Sherlock had paced nervously around the small flat. 

At some point John had folded up the plush rug that lay in front of the armchair in the reading corner to create a makeshift mattress, wrapped himself in the woollen blanket, and gone to sleep. He had an early morning shift. He needed to sleep. He had no idea when Sherlock had gone to bed. He only had a single memory of that night. He couldn't quite place it, but he'd woken up sometime to a whisper. John? A hand running through his hair. Breath on his neck, arms around his body. Warmth at his back. It seeped through the blanket to him. Sherlock? Had Sherlock lain down with him, just for a few minutes, taken him in his arms, held him? A profound feeling of happiness. But John wasn't sure. He'd fallen back asleep right away. Sherlock was in his bed in the morning. John had sat down next to him for a moment and watched him, touched his pale cheek with his fingers. Then he'd gone to work.

Seal! Finally! 

"You were trying to reach me?" Harried breathing on the other end of the line, street noise in the background. Seal was out somewhere.

"Can you take over my shift for two hours?"

"In principle at any rate, but it depends what it looks like on the unit."

"Quiet."

"Okay, I'll be at St Anna's in twenty minutes. I'll decide then."

"Great. Thank you."

Twenty minutes. That would be 12:45. Damn it! John organised the patient files, finished his report, got everything ready to hand over. Seal was a few minutes late, had to take a look at everything first. It was long past 1 p.m. when John was finally able to leave the hospital and try desperately to hail a cab.

***

The birds on the overhead power lines were restless. They flew up as John approached the club. A black cloud rising into the sky, a spiraling circle, higher and higher. Capricious changes of direction before the backdrop of the dark rainclouds, sudden and unmotivated, as if an invisible finger had reached into the swarm. John didn't pay any attention to them.

The club was nearly empty at this time of day. Callum sat in the office this time, taking care of some administrative work in front of the computer. One of the men who ran the bar was drying glasses and putting them away. The door in the back of the library was locked. John considered breaking it down, but then he went to Callum in the office and asked for the key to the ritual rooms.

"You can't go in there now," Callum said. "Martin's leading a ritual."

"I know, that's why I'm here. I have to get into the ritual. I'm running late."

Callum looked him over keenly. His eyes pale. They were a strange green colour. John had never noticed it before. Callum must have been a good-looking man. He still was. He was one of the oldest at the club, he must have been seventy.

"Someone's already up there," Callum said.

"My partner," John said. "We have a partner ritual." John hoped there was such a thing.

"Partner ritual?" Callum smirked. "Never heard of that before."

"Martin wants to try it out with us and asked if we'd let him," John lied, but Callum shook his head.

"He didn't say anything about that. And he locked the door behind him. He would have left it open if he were expecting anyone else."

"He forgot," John said impatiently.

Callum laughed. "Martin never forgets anything," he retorted. "And now let me keep working."

"No, Callum!" John switched tactics to beg, and he was dead serious in doing so. "Please. Callum. I'm afraid for my partner."

Callum paused what he was doing to look at John. Something seemed to have hit him. He took a deep breath. 

"We're all scared for our partners when they work with Martin," he mused. 

"He breaks couples up," John took a wild guess.

Callum shook his head. "No, John," he said slowly. "He uncovers painful dependencies and frees men from the wrong partners. And he brings those together who belong together."

John was surprised. More by the earnestness and respect contained in Callum's words than what they said.

"He can do that?" John asked.

"He's the Grand Master," Callum replied simply.

Grand Master? Martin? Damn it!

"What about Phil?" John asked. A spontanous question that came to him.

"Ask Martin. You're always hanging around with him anyway. To be honest, I thought you were having an affair. But then your ex suddenly turns up here."

"An affair with the Grand Master?"

"You wouldn't be the first, believe me. Martin's quite open about things like that. He's a man and he lives all of his facets without reservation. Including that one."

John met Callum's gaze. "Callum. Can you please give me the key?" he asked. "I am really quite desperately afraid for my friend. I need to get to him."

"All right." Callum sighed. He opened the drawer and took out the key. But he kept it in his hand as he said, "I'm only giving it to you because I know that you and Martin like each other. Explain to him yourself why you're interrupting the ritual. And remember, even if this does concern your friend: Martin does valuable work for the men here and forgoes his own happiness for it. He makes himself available without any restrictions. Please remain respectful. He is truly an extraordinary man."

John looked into Callum's aged eyes. They were serious. 

John nodded slowly. "I promise," he said. This time he didn't need to lie.

***

It was quiet in the loft. Dull, dusky light diffused lazily through the panes of the windows set in the roof; the sky outside hung low, black-grey, rainy. John listened, trying to hear something from the round, pitch-black ritual room, taking special care not to cross in front of any of the slits, knowing that the brief interruption in the dim light would be immediately noticed inside the space. He heard voices, but couldn't understand the words. Martin's voice. Sherlock's voice. Thank God. They were talking, which meant they were alive. It sounded relaxed and muted, so there was no tension, no immediate danger. John wasn't sure what he should do. Was this a systemic ritual, the path through the archetypes like he'd gone through? Or what was happening in there? Did it also concern relationships and sexuality with Sherlock? 

John stared at the Lover's text, the entrance he was standing closest to. Relinquishing control. Sherlock was seeking the Lover, the characteristics he lacked. Basic trust. Devotion. John could offer those things to him. So could Martin. Martin was a Master, probably in all of the archetypes, but especially in complete devotion. He made himself available for everything, no restrictions. Damn it! Would Sherlock fall for Martin's dark-eyed warmth, his openness, his generosity? His offer in the pitch-black centre of the ritual space. Like John? John was surprised that it wasn't jealousy he felt, but fear. Fear for Sherlock. Sherlock with his timidity toward anything physical wouldn't be able to handle it if that happened. Not even anything close to it.

John slipped through the Lover's entrance, quick and silent, pressed immediately back against the wall. It was quiet. The only sound was breathing, and the air smelled of humans. Were there more people in the room? Damn it! John hadn't thought of that. His pulse was racing. He felt an alarmed attention directed at him. He'd been found out.

"Who's there?" That was Martin. John thought feverishly whether he should react, and how. But then Martin asked, "Is that you, John?"

John exhaled. "Yes," he said. "Are you here too, Sherlock?"

"Yes, I'm here, John." Sherlock's voice didn't sound stressed. "There's no reason to worry. Martin and I are here. Everything's fine."

"Can you please leave us alone, John," Martin said. It was stated politely, but it was clearly an order.

"No," John said, and he didn't leave any doubt either that he meant what he said. "I'm not leaving Sherlock alone."

"All right," Martin said. "Then sit down and be still."

John was surprised at the lack of resistance. He lowered himself to the floor next to the wall. Soft cork. He heard the rustle of clothing, movement in the middle of the room. It was quiet for a while. 

Then Martin said – soft and gentle – clearly speaking to Sherlock: "John is here, Sherlock. You heard it. He's here in person, in the flesh. He's sitting with us in this room. Do you want to let him in, or should he wait outside?"

"He can stay," Sherlock said.

"If he stays, he'll be witness to everything that happens here. It's your most intimate side. What's deep inside your subconscious. Your traumas, your fears. Do you understand that?"

It took a while before Sherlock answered. He said, "I trust John."

"These are very private things."

"I'd like John to stay," Sherlock reiterated.

"Fine," Martin said. "Then we'll continue. The energy situation is different now that John's here. You need to redirect yourself. Close your eyes and spin around. Good. The other way. Good. And now seek your theme. Slowly."

John heard breathing. Light scraping on the floor. Sherlock seemed to be feeling for the directions in the dark.

"That's good," he heard Martin say in a low voice. "Just sit down." And after a while: "What do you feel, Sherlock?"

It was quiet for a long time. John turned in the direction he believed Sherlock to be. He sat there with his eyes closed and felt him. Felt his presence. Felt the security between them. Then Sherlock answered the question as to what he felt very softly, barely a whisper:

"Peace."

Martin took a deep breath. It was completely silent in the dark ritual chamber. Martin's breath was the only thing to be heard, a deep sigh. He seemed to sense something, seemed to be struggling against something or someone.

"Yes, it's peaceful," he said then, very softly. "Where is it coming from?"

"It's everywhere," Sherlock said.

"Where everywhere?"

"Inside me and outside me."

"Where is the centre?"

Sherlock seemed to be thinking about it. Then he said, "Inside me. But there's also something outside me, something that bolsters the peacefulness."

"That's John," Martin said softly. "You're aligned with him like a compass needle to the north pole. Describe what you feel."

After a while, Sherlock said, "It's completely still."

"What you feel is love, Sherlock. Yours and John's. But mostly yours. Your own. Concentrate on it."

The stillness. John felt his pulse throbbing throughout his body. He closed his eyes. Martin's breathing. It was clearly accelerated and ragged. He was experiencing all of the emotions along with them. That hadn't been clear to John until that moment. He was experiencing and carrying with him all of the emotions and fates of the men he ministered to here. John heard him inhale deeply. 

Then Martin said – softly, very softly: "Your soul is full of love, Sherlock. Can you feel it? The sadness. Your deep love for creation. For everything out there. For the natural laws, the reasoning, the creatures, the people, for John. Why don't you permit it?"

The sudden dismay John felt at hearing those words knocked the air out of his lungs. He pressed his hand to his mouth, smothered a cry. Tears suddenly sprang from his eyes, running down his cheeks. He let them flow. He didn't know why this was happening to him. He simply accepted it.

"I can't," Sherlock said, his voice choked.

"Your soul is open and free," Martin said. "Your spirit is vast and powerful. Your emotions are constricted and your body is blocked. What happened to your body, Sherlock? Remember."

"I don't know," Sherlock said, pained.

"Someone touched you, didn't they? They touched you without asking. Disrespectful. You were a child. They didn't take you seriously. They hurt you. You couldn't defend yourself. So you locked away the parts that could be hurt. Your emotions, your body."

Nothing for a while. Then Martin said, "Yes, cry, Sherlock. That's good. Grieve for that lonely child."

Sherlock was weeping freely. Martin waited. John didn't know whether Martin had taken Sherlock into his arms, comforting him. 

When Sherlock had calmed down, Martin said, "You're a man now, Sherlock. You're strong. You're as sharp as a tack and brilliant. No one can just hurt you anymore. You can defend yourself."

"No," Sherlock said.

"What does that no refer to?"

"I can be hurt. I can't defend myself."

"Who is hurting you?"

A long silence. Then Sherlock said, "Everyone."

"You're hurting yourself," Martin corrected him. "Isn't that the case? Because John isn't hurting you. He loves you. But you're not allowing that love. You're blocking off your emotions and your body. That's what hurts you."

John heard movement. Sherlock sighed, was probably being touched by Martin.

"What do you feel?" Martin asked.

"Warmth."

"Good. I'm going to open your sacral and root chakras. That will open your body up for love and for sexuality. Just remain entirely calm and feel. Nothing will happen that isn't meant to happen. Are you ready?"

A long silence.

"Tell me when you're ready to take the step, Sherlock. John is here. He's your partner. He's here for you. He can be with you if you want."

"I'd like him to be with me."

"John?" Martin said. "Can you join us?"

John set out in the darkness. He didn't stand up. He felt his way across the soft cork floor on all fours, moving in the direction he felt the other two men in, towards the centre of the room. He reached out and touched a hand.

"It's me, Martin," said Martin. "Come over here." Martin guided John, placed John's hand on Sherlock's shoulder, let his linger on top for a few seconds.

"This is John, Sherlock."

John felt the movement. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, reached for him and pulled him closer.

"That's good like that," Martin said. "Come, sit in front of Sherlock so you can put your arms around each other."

John obeyed. It was as if he were in a trance. Maybe he was. He was calm and felt confident. He trusted what Martin was doing, what was happening, even if he didn't understand it. He sat in front of Sherlock, sorted out their legs, put his arms around him, let himself be drawn into a tight, desperate hug. Sherlock pressed his tear-streaked face into John's neck, his body shaking. John just held him.

"Are you ready, Sherlock?" Martin asked after a while, once the two of them had settled into the embrace.

"Yes." Sherlock was trembling in John's arms. 

John closed his eyes and simply waited. Martin ran both hands down Sherlock's back, John could feel that much. And then he felt Sherlock relaxing. The temperature rose between them. Sherlock's heart rate increased, became faster and faster. He panted lightly against John's neck. John could feel Sherlock's heart beating hard and fast against his chest and tugged his friend closer, a signal that it was all right. Everything. Including the arousal that seized their bodies, both of them, the fire in their loins, making their genitals swell and press against each other. Sherlock burrowed into John, his fingers digging into John's back, grasping at his hair. He writhed and gasped. He clung to John, and John to him.

"I'm going to join you," Martin said. "That will give you relief."

Martin put both of his hands on their backs, one on Sherlock's and one on John's, drew a burning trail down to the smalls of their backs, let his hands rest there. Heat welled up in John's body. A strong heat that spread like wildfire, releasing the tension with a faint throbbing. It was extremely pleasant and liberating. Like an orgasm. John immediately thought of an orgasm, the feeling was that similar. Just much milder, more internal, more integrated. Much warmer and longer lasting. As if he were dreaming a gentle orgasm right through his entire being. As if it were going on everywhere inside him. A pulsating warmth ending in a deep, profoundly satisfying happiness. Sherlock's embrace became mellow and tender. They both relaxed. They were so close, and it felt so natural, that John couldn't understand why they hadn't become a couple long ago. Maybe, he thought … maybe they were. Had been for a long time now.

"You should sleep together," Martin said. "You have a sustainable foundation for it. You love each other. You only stand to gain."

It was utterly still in the ritual chamber. Sherlock and John sat there, wrapped tightly around each other.

"Do you want that?" Sherlock whispered in John's ear, a hot stream of breath. Sherlock's hand in John's hair. "Do you want to sleep with me?"

"Yes," John said softly. "Yes, Sherlock. I want it so much."

Their lips sought each other, touched. John took Sherlock's lower lip tenderly between his, felt Sherlock's lips gently holding his upper one. Just for a moment, then Sherlock ended the contact.

"If I give you my body, John... You know I have problems with all these... physical things."

John had closed his eyes. "I love you, Sherlock," he said quietly.

"Are you sure?" It sounded surprisingly businesslike.

"Yes, I'm sure," John said, just as businesslike and maybe just a tiny bit annoyed.

Martin laughed lightly. "I think that's enough for today," he said.

***

A few minutes later, they left the ritual space together through the King's gateway. Once outside, Sherlock leaned back against the wall. He was exhausted. Pale and shaky. John was shocked when he saw him in the dim light of the attic.

"Stay here as long as you need to," Martin said. "I'll be downstairs."

Sherlock let himself slide down the wall to the floor, tipped his head back and closed his eyes. John knelt beside him, reached for Sherlock's wrist and took his pulse. It was running fast. John put a hand to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock opened his eyes, took John's hand in his, pulled it away from his face but didn't let go.

"I'm not sick, John," he said, smiling into John's worried eyes. "At least not physically."

"You look done in."

"I am," Sherlock said soberly. "Martin is really something special. I didn't expect that, but I think the result was worth the experiment."

John searched Sherlock's eyes, but didn't find any irony there, no downplaying of the situation, no avoidance. Sherlock was holding his hand. John sank back against the wall at Sherlock's side, sat right next to him. Shoulder to shoulder. They sat there for several long minutes, hand in hand. Eventually, they turned their heads toward each other and smiled. Just then, the door to the attic was torn open.

"Quick!" Callum cried, his voice breathless and frantic. "Martin. Down in the club..."

Sherlock and John raced down the stairs to the club room. Martin sat on the floor with his back leaning against the bar block. He was deathly pale. His eyes were rolled up in his head. He was choking and gasping. Sherlock shook him.

"Martin. Did you drink anything? Martin!"

Martin nodded. "Water," he rasped. "Bottle."

John had already prepared the ampoule with the antidote, had a towel in his hand to make a ligature. But he hesitated. If it wasn't the same poison, he could kill Martin with the antidote.

"Are the symptoms the same as with Davide?" he asked Callum, who sat shaking on a chair, his mobile phone in his hand. He'd already called the ambulance. Callum nodded and swallowed. 

John saw the hesitation in Sherlock's eyes. Then Martin convulsed, shaken by heavy cramps. His scream of pain no more than a desperate gurgle. He fell unconscious.

"Inject him," Sherlock said, pushing up the sleeves of Martin's jumper with shaky hands and straightening his arm. 

John tied the towel around Martin's bicep and pulled it tight. He found the vein, injected the antidote, and loosened the towel. Then he held Martin's lower arm pressed against his bicep for a few seconds to squeeze the puncture shut. A routine series of motions. He met Sherlock's eye. They had both seen the other needle marks in the crook of his elbow.


	7. One Night of Happiness

Sherlock poked at his food. John watched him thoughtfully. 

"Not hungry anymore?" he asked.

Sherlock glanced up to meet John's eyes, shook his head, and set down the fork. It was late. They'd spent the whole evening at the club and police headquarters. John had used CPR on Martin when his heart had started to stutter. The paramedic had then taken over. Martin wasn't out of the woods yet. But he was alive. The antidote seemed to be working – at least partially. Martin was in the ICU at West Suffolk Hospital. John had made sure he wasn't taken to St Anna's. That would have been too dangerous.

Sherlock had examined the scene of the crime and all of the evidence before the officers from the Suffolk Constabulary arrived. A full team. Forensics technicians. Homicide squad. Although it wasn't a homicide yet, from a legal standpoint. Martin was alive. At the moment anyway. Was he the missing victim in the circle of archetypes? The bar was on the east side, in the sign of the Lover. Did that mean the circle was now closed? 

Martin had drunk some water, but the water bottle checked out. There weren't any traces of poison to be found in the glass either. Had Martin ingested anything else? An herbal throat lozenge? Sherlock was certain that Martin had smelled like lozenges. But there weren't any lozenges to be found anywhere, nor any discarded wrappers that might have indicated one. There weren't any herbal tinctures or medicines or anything that smelled of herbs other than a variety of schnaps, but it had been fine. No one had seen anything. And there had been several men in the club when Martin collapsed. Two of them had been standing at the bar with Martin. They'd lowered him to the floor when he started swaying, fetched Callum and called for a doctor. But there hadn't been a medical doctor in the club at the time. Other than John.

He and Sherlock had kept out of the evidence gathering, had just observed. The officials from the local police had treated them as witnesses and suspects. They were still undercover. They'd been taken in for questioning at the station, where they'd collated the initial results of the investigation. Phil really was at a convention in the States, or at least he was on the list of participants and the passenger lists for the flights. His alibi was still being checked out. The results of the medical tests that had been run on Martin hadn't come back yet. But one thing was clear already: the killer was going to try to prevent Martin from making a statement. Because Martin knew what he'd ingested and whom he'd had contact with prior to that. He was under round-the-clock surveillance.

Sherlock had racked his brains, had been racking his brains the whole night, and still hadn't been able to put the puzzle pieces together, to penetrate the connections. He'd struggled with the fact that he had to wait for the results of the investigation, as well as the fact that Martin couldn't be interviewed. He'd kicked himself for not having asked Martin how he was aware of Sherlock's identity, for not having questioned him, talked to him, for having got caught up in the ritual. Sherlock was worn thin and worse for wear, nervous and angry. Insufferable.

"Let's get something to eat," John had said when they left the police office. It was already after 9 p.m.

"Not hungry."

Sherlock hadn't expanded on it, hadn't even looked at John, preferring to hail a cab and get in. John had remained standing outside.

"I'm going to get something to eat and stretch my legs a bit. I'll see you at the flat," John had said. "You have the key."

The taxi had driven off. John had gone out into the cold and rainy autumn night, Saturday evening in Bury St Edmunds, people on the street, the pubs full. He'd sat down in a restaurant, a free table for two by the wall, ordered a salad and an omelet and an ale to go with it. He was tired and hungry. He needed a break from all of the intense moments. From the ritual, the club, Martin, Sherlock. It felt good to just sit there, to eat and not say anything, to be alone, to think about the events of the past few hours and days.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock stood in front of the table. Coat wet, hair curled from the rain, ice-blue eyes jumpy, his voice uncertain: "Can I join you?"

A long, searching look. Sherlock had sat down after a brief hesitation without waiting for a reply. John had closed his eyes for a moment. Warmth. The sounds of people eating and chatting in the background. His own calmness. He'd opened his eyes then, wanting to say something but didn't, instead mutely gazing into that icy blue. The waiter had come and Sherlock had ordered an omelet too. He'd eaten part of it, wordlessly, a couple of forkfuls, then just poked at it, finally setting the fork aside. 

John finished eating in peace, drank his ale. He didn't speak. Sherlock didn't either. He'd talked all evening at the station, expounded upon his hectic, sometimes unintelligible conclusions and deductions, sketched out speculations and suspicions, constructed connections only to drop them again, tense, feverish. Unsuccessful. He looked dejected.

"Walk with me a bit?" John asked.

They strolled through the nighttime city. It had stopped raining. The streets gleaming wet, reflecting the glare of the lights. The high-pitched hiss of the cars on the wet asphalt. Laughing, chattering teenagers in front of a cinema. Cool, damp air. The smells of rain and food and people. They walked close together. There still wasn't anything to say between them. John felt Sherlock's fingers on his hand, laced his in between. They didn't hold fast, their palms didn't touch. Their fingers simply hung loosely together as if it were nothing more than a fleeting coincidence, a tender, innocent secret that might disappear at the next breeze.

They didn't just walk a bit, they walked the whole way back. Almost an hour. Silent most of the time, their fingers intertwined, their hands. John enjoyed the wordless togetherness that connected them yet gave them each space for their own thoughts.

***

Back at the flat, Sherlock showered first, then John. The day weighed heavily on both of them. They washed it off their bodies: the ritual, the attack on Martin, the uncertainty, the lack of a conclusive motive, the unsolvable nature of the crime. The exhaustion. Sherlock was in bed when John emerged from the shower, watched his friend as John draped his clothes over the chair.

"The bed's big enough for both of us, John," Sherlock said when John started setting up a nest for himself on the floor. "A hundred forty centimetres, a double."

"It's not the size of the bed that's the problem, Sherlock."

"I realise that," Sherlock countered. "Come in anyway."

John looked into those pale eyes. The flickering restlessness had disappeared from them. He hesitated. He was tired. Sherlock was too. But maybe... maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it was good if they were too tired to think. John sat down on the bed next to Sherlock and looked at him. Sherlock had stuffed John's pillow under his head. Black, tousled curls. A soft look in his pale-as-water eyes.

"Are you sure?" John's voice came out sounding tentative.

"Yes. I'm sure, John."

Sherlock held out his hand to John, ran it down John's arm, seeking, cool fingertips gliding over John's hand, brushing the back of it, feeling their way into the dips between his fingers. So tenderly inquisitive and at the same time so provocatively intimate that it took John's breath away. He examined Sherlock's slim hand caressing his, exploring, invading, conquering it, gentle and cautious. Demanding. He let it happen, felt Sherlock's arousal along with his own. Heart pounding. Quick breaths. For several long moments, he wasn't sure whether this was real. Sherlock approaching him, seeking him out, touching him. Touching him with clear intent. Their eyes met, caught and held. Sherlock's lips were parted. He was ready. He was open. Waiting for John.

John lay down beside him, crawled under the blanket that Sherlock lifted for him. He lay down in the warmth and was immediately pulled into an embrace. A gentle, perhaps somewhat uncertain embrace. John put his arms around Sherlock, pulled him closer. Sherlock's breath, his damp hair, heat, sighs, the smell of his skin. Sherlock's hands. Thin, cool hands reaching into John's hair. Sherlock's hard, hot body under the t-shirt. John ran one hand across the cotton, over bare skin. Shoulder blades. Ribs. Heat. Desire. Sherlock moaned. Legs twisting around each other. Their erections touched through the thin material of their pyjama bottoms and pants, surging toward each other. Sherlock's gasps in John's ear. 

They stayed like that for a while, firmly wrapped around each other with their mutual heat. Pulses racing. John breathed in Sherlock's scent, his dampness and heat. He felt dizzy as he realised what they were doing. Faint with desire, he licked the salty-hot skin of Sherlock's neck, unrestrained, sucked hard. A wave of arousal flooded through him. Sherlock arched up in his arms. 

Then John pulled away from the embrace, tugged Sherlock's t-shirt off over his head, took off his own top, slipped out of his pants, slid the light pyjama trousers down his friend's hips, his hands shaking but not hesitating. The look in Sherlock's eyes. Deep and clouded, blue as water. John stroked Sherlock's temple, reached into the dark hair. Loving. Feverish with lust, he touched Sherlock's lips with his, cautiously slipped between them. Sherlock's breath trembling. John held onto Sherlock's lower lip, sucked on it tenderly, very lightly. The taste of toothpaste and Sherlock. Familiar. Strange. Arousing. Sherlock returned the kiss. A sensual rush, full of desire. Tender. Deeper. Closer. They both groaned when the tips of their tongues touched and a current of fire zapped through their bodies. 

Sherlock reacted to it strongly, burying both hands in John's hair, urging his nude body on John, rolling onto him, grinding against him, greedy, wanting. John cried out softly when he felt Sherlock's hard member rubbing and stimulating his in such a slow, intimate, wanton manner. He placed both of his hands on Sherlock's buttocks, squeezing their groins even closer together, echoing the motions of Sherlock's hips, meeting him halfway, surrendering to the mindless delirium Sherlock was carrying him away to. 

They were both about to climax when Sherlock paused. Their eyes met. John became lost in the beauty of Sherlock's wide open, dreamy blue, deep with lust. Their mutual focus on each other. On this moment of intimacy. Sherlock's gaze within him. Inside those unutterably familiar depths. Sherlock. John was inundated with tenderness and love, a hot wave. It filled him completely, drove him to the edge of control. The tip of Sherlock's tongue ran across his lips, barely making contact, sending a jolt of electricity through his body. Sherlock's slow, lascivious grinding motions. A moan, unconscious, powerless to evade it. Sherlock dug his nails into him and writhed, panting. His fierce orgasm, the hot flood, the powerful contractions between them, painful against John's cock. A short thrust into the damp, tight heat gave John release a heartbeat later.

***

John poured himself some coffee and sat down at the tiny table in the kitchen with his cup. He'd set it for breakfast: eggs, toast, marmelade. He'd already showered. Sherlock was still asleep. John sipped the hot coffee. Reflective. Sherlock. They'd made love a second time that night. At some point, Sherlock had hugged him, half asleep, their bodies had found each other and cuddled together. They'd simply allowed the arousal, the renewed lust, had let whatever happened, happen. Like an old, well-acquainted couple. John smiled. It was hard to understand why it had taken so long for them to take this step. So much fear, so many doubts.

Sherlock looked like he'd overslept. He'd pulled on his pyjama trousers and t-shirt. He didn't say anything as he came into the kitchen. He silently took some coffee and sat down across from John at the little table. His eyes as pale as water, glowing. His hair tousled. A smile. John smiled back.

"Everything all right with you?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't answer right away. He sipped his coffee. Then he looked into John's eyes. A gentle, calm clarity in the icy blue, the beauty of deeply felt happiness.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said quietly, his voice soft, dark satin. And after a pensive moment of silence, he added, "I didn't know before what it meant to be truly happy."

John gazed into Sherlock's eyes, mute, touched by the admission, filled with love for this extraordinary man. Sherlock, as he'd suspected and longed for him for a long time now. Nocturnal. Affectionate. Disheveled. Smiling. Serious. Profound.


	8. Ars Herbaria Magica

Sherlock stopped abruptly. In the middle of the pedestrian crossing. He stood there as if nailed to the spot, in the midst of the stream of people surging across the street. John grabbed his arm.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood stock-still. His gaze was unsteady, fixed on a point in the distance. John tugged at his arm.

"Sherlock."

The pedestrian signal turned red. John dragged Sherlock across the street to the pavement, his hand like a steel band around his friend's upper arm with the thick wool of his coat. Sherlock was unwieldy, but John didn't leave a shadow of a doubt that they needed to move off the street.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John asked, both concern and a trace of annoyance in his tone.

Sherlock continued to stand there, not moving, where John had stopped pulling him. He was still staring absentmindedly into space. His lips parted just a crack. His pale eyes flashed restively. John placed himself directly in front of Sherlock and looked at him. He was still holding his friend's arm, Sherlock's muscles tight underneath the material of the coat. John shook him. Sherlock's body was stiff.

"Sherlock. Look at me!"

Slowly, Sherlock sought out his friend's eyes. He seemed to be returning from somewhere far away, seemed to have to make an effort to find the target of his gaze. John dug his fingers into Sherlock's arm.

Ice-blue eyes focused on John's grey ones. Slowly. A long way from wherever it was to here. Awareness returned. Bit by bit. Something melted in the icy blue, softened as John's presence was noted. Sherlock laid his hand on John's arm.

"I need to go into my mind palace, John. Now," he said. "Can you cover me?"

John searched Sherlock's eyes briefly. Then he nodded and wordlessly pulled Sherlock with him to the next alley, quick and direct, even a little rough, shoved him back against the wall of the building. Sherlock's eyes were already blank again, frighteningly far away. He stood there, leaning against the wall, his eyes flickering, his face twitching, waving his hands around in front of his body as if he were talking to someone. John stood in front of him and gestured too. It looked as if they were having a lively conversation with each other in sign language. People looked at them, but no one stopped, thank God.

Sherlock suddenly relaxed, took a deep breath, and let his arms drop, looking at John. He was back, back in the here and now.

"It's not a single perpetrator, John," he said softly. "It doesn't add up. There are at least two. And it reaches far back into the past. What do you know about Callum?"

"Callum McHattrick, seventy-eight years old, retired professor of pharmacology. He was a don at Cambridge. Club member for fifty-two years. You don't think Callum..."

"McHattrick. He was twenty-six," Sherlock mused. And then to John: "I need to know who was active in the club with him back then, fifty-two years ago. See if you can find anything that has to do with Phil Salisbury or his partner, Davide Perilli. There should be something in the list of members. Are the membership records kept digitally?"

"No, it's all just in that old ledger," John said.

"Odd. Can you go to the club and look through the list of members, John? I need all the names from back then. Plus or minus two years. I'll be at the Constabulary. We'll meet at Linda's."

Before John could react, Sherlock was gone. John took a deep breath. They'd actually been on their way to the West Suffolk Hospital. Martin was still unresponsive. John had wanted to take stock of his condition himself and inquire about any initial results. And from there to the club. He looked around for a taxi and flagged it down.

***

The stillness of a lonely, dismal autumn day lay across the landscape. A light mist had spread across the fields and meadows, draped itself over the tattered trees where the last few leaves hung limply. It was drizzling. The overhead power line was humming from the moisture in the air. It was empty, a thin line hanging low in the grey sky. The birds were gone. Dead leaves clogged the gravel path to Lucifer's Gardens. The rowan tree in the Lover's eastern realm was bare. The willow to the south looked tired and resigned, a pensive warrior. The oak in the King's north bore the cool emptiness proudly, a sign of the knowledge that a new summer was dreaming its way to life through the calm of the winter. Only the yew tree still stood dark and evergreen in the west, defying the cycle of life with its tempting red, poisonous berries.

The manor house looked dreary now, during the day, abandoned and dark, shrouded by fog and damp. There were no lights on like there usually were when John came here. No one was around. The club was locked. Police tape sealed the front door. John knew where the key to the club was. He'd heard Martin telling one of the men, "If I'm not there yet, the key is behind the blinds of the second window on the left. You need to look around a bit, it's in one of the cracks."

John wanted to avoid breaking the police seal if possible, although he was sure all he'd need to do was call Linda to get permission. But it would be better in any case if he didn't leave any traces behind, so long as the murderer hadn't been identified. He walked around the house, looking for some means of entry. The exterior metal blinds over the kitchen window had been propped open with the metal rod intended for that purpose, with a small ventilation flap left open behind it. Classic. A kitchen always needed fresh air, and was almost always on the ground floor. It was simple enough to reach through the ventilation flap, open the main window, and crawl through. 

It was gloomy in the house. It smelled stuffy in the club room now, with no one there and not having been aired out; like alcohol, paper, and men. John went into the club directors' office, opened the drawer where the ledger with the list of members was, and took out the heavy, leather-bound book. He went through it, looking for the pages from fifty-two years ago, for Callum's name. It was easy to find, one of the few that wasn't marked with a cross. Callum had joined the club young, younger than most. At an age when most people were still in school, he had already graduated. Doctor of Pharmacology. At twenty-six. Unusual. He must have turned heads back then, at the club. He had doubtless been a good-looking, highly intelligent young man. 

John turned the page. Before Callum, at most ten new members had joined the club per year, nearly all of them biologists and pharmacologists, now and then a physician. Salisbury? Jonathan Salisbury. A relative of Phil Salisbury? His father? Professor of Pharmacology. Cambridge as well. He must have known Callum. Had Callum been his student? He'd joined the club a year before Callum. Why? He must have known about it prior to that, there were several members belonging to the Cambridge elite. Had Jonathan Salisbury recruited Callum? Why? So Callum had shown up here fifty-two years ago. In the year after Callum joined, there were at least fifty new members. Engineers, physicists, philosophers, mathematicians. Something had happened there. An expansion to new disciplines. That was worthy of note and could be a clue. John took a look around. There was a scanner in the office. But he'd need to start the computer first. 

John sat down. Windows login screen. The device was used by several people and didn't have any confidential data on it. The username and password would be simple, or would be written down on a slip of paper somewhere. John looked for it in the desk. The note was taped to the inside of the drawer: _Username: Lucifer, Password: two*2=Seven_. Interesting. Unusual password. Did it mean something? Two times two equals seven. It wasn't true. At least from a mathematical standpoint. 

John logged in and started the scanner, copied the pages and printed then out. While the old, slow printer noisily churned out the scanned pages, John clicked around on the computer, opened the folder with the financial records, a simple Excel document. He thought about printing it out but decided against it. The Suffolk Constabulary had taken the computer and combed through it following Davide Perilli's murder. John remembered the report. They hadn't found anything suspicious. John clicked around, not really thinking about anything as he opened the browser history. Just curious.

www.arsherbariamagica.co.uk. 

_Ars Herbaria Magica_. Magical botany. John opened the page. It was in Latin. Shit. It had been years since he'd taken Latin. But it was definitely a collection of texts and articles on the magical applications of plants. The home page contained only a brief introduction and two links, along with a search box. The introductory text basically talked about plants having an important position in the sphere of creation alongside animals and human beings. It said that a knowledge of their effects in a systemic environment was essential, given that plants served influential devas and their part of the system was extremely powerful. And while animals had automatic access, ever since Adam and Eve humans had the choice: whether to explore the wisdom of the green world, to taste of the tree of knowledge and work together with these powerful spirits... or to ignore them and remain simple-minded, foolish gainsayers.

John wasn't sure he understood everything correctly. There were two links alongside the introduction: _Index Scriptorum_ and _Index Tractatum_. John clicked on both of them, but both the list of authors and the list of entries brought up a login pop-up. He also got the login pop-up when he entered _McHattrick_ in the search box and clicked on 'quaere'. He got the login pop-up no matter what he clicked on. Shit. John took a screenshot of the page and printed it out. Just then, his mobile vibrated. Sherlock.

"John. The West Suffolk Hospital just called. Martin's not doing well. We should go over there. It's urgent. I'll get a taxi and pick you up. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

***

They'd brought Martin to a small palliative care room. He lay in the bed, thin and wan. His respiration was shallow and rapid. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. John sat down next to him, took Martin's pale hand between his own. He was unconscious. John looked up at the orderly, a question on his face. She gave him a slight shake of her head.

"We can't get the fever under control," she said sortly. "Dr Wittings is on the way. She'll talk to you."

"Have you informed his next-of-kin?" John asked.

"There aren't any."

"Friends?"

The woman shook her head. "We didn't find anyone. Two of his coworkers from the institute were here, and one from the club. They didn't know anything either. But Mr Combs did regain consciousness for a short while and said a name: John. The police thought that meant you."

John. He closed his eyes. A wave of tenderness surged through him; of warmth. His eyes stung. Martin. He didn't know anything about him. Nothing about where he came from, his family, his life. They hadn't talked. Not about him. It had never been about Martin. Always the others. About him: John. About Sherlock. About all the other men Martin had served without ever taking his own needs into account. Grand Master. Solitary and strong. Martin. John stroked his hand. He felt the coolness within it.

Dr Wittings was a gaunt, middle-aged woman. Her expression was serious, but it was clear that this was a routine situation for her, something she wasn't being confronted with for the first time. She shook hands with Sherlock and John, brief but firm.

"There isn't anything further we can do as far as we can see," she said. Her tone was professional. "The fever is rising aggressively. We've tried everything we can to lower it but his body isn't reacting to the treatments and drugs anymore. We can't stabilise him. I'm sorry."

"How long has he had the fever?" John asked.

"Since last night. When we took his temperature this morning we found it elevated and immediately undertook countermeasures. To no avail."

"Is there any explanation for the fever?" Sherlock asked. He stood at the foot of the bed, pale, his expression closed off. His voice sounded hard.

"It could be anything," Dr Wittings said. "His body was exposed to a lethal dose of a poison we don't recognise. He had to deal with an equally foreign antidote at the same time. He's reacting to something with a raging infection. But we don't know to what, and we can't stop the fever. We simply don't understand what's going on in his body." Dr Witting sounded exhausted.

"Is there any hope that he'll survive the fever?" Sherlock asked.

Dr Wittings shook her head in resignation. "According to everything we know in mainstream medicine, Dr Martin Combs is dying," she said. 

"Has anyone been to see him?" Sherlock asked.

"The guard didn't let anyone in. Nor did the staff. We had strict orders. You're the only ones." After a short period of silence, she said, "I'll leave you alone with him now. If you need anything, you can find me in the doctors' lounge."

"We're going to catch the killer," Sherlock said once Dr Wittings had left, when he and John were alone with Martin. "That's a promise, John." Sherlock's face was colourless, his voice bitter.

John nodded without responding. He was holding Martin's hand. He knew there was nothing more to do other than not leave Martin alone. He watched as Sherlock peeled back the white hospital gown from Martin's arms and examined the insides of his elbows. All of the puncture marks were old except the one where John had injected the antidote. Sherlock eyed the IV.

"If someone injected something directly into the port, there's no way to prove it," John said dully.

Sherlock paused, staring off into space. "If the killer has helped things along, that means he has access as a member of the staff," he said and started to pace restlessly back and forth in the room. Lost in thought.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped. Their eyes met and lingered. 

"Martin's going to die, and I'm staying with him."

A moment of astonishment in Sherlock's eyes, perhaps bewilderment.

"We need to find the killer, John."

"We will. But this is more important to me right now."

Sherlock stood there as if rooted to the spot. The response seemed to hit him hard. He broke eye contact with John, stared into the distance. It was clearly difficult for him to deal with this information. John realised then that something had shifted between them. Sherlock was bothered by his answer.

"I'm not staying here," Sherlock said. It sounded defiant.

"You don't have to," John said mildly. He let go of Martin's hand, stood up and went over to Sherlock, laying his hand on Sherlock's arm.

"It won't take long. I'll be with you soon," he said gently. "I'll see you later."

John searched Sherlock's eyes. Light blue, unsettled, uncertain. Perhaps helpless in light of the things that were happening here, the decision John had made. John gazed into his friend's eyes, full of love and trust. He didn't leave any room for misinterpretation. They belonged together, they knew each other. There was nothing that could come between them. Nothing. 

Sherlock swallowed. The icy blue softened. Concern. And insecurity. Still.

"Should I stay with you?"

John shook his head. He tugged Sherlock close, carefully, drew him into an embrace. After a moment of recalcitrance, Sherlock gave in, hugged John, held onto him for several long seconds. John closed his eyes, breathing in Sherlock's scent. They couldn't lose this. Their newfound closeness. They couldn't forget it. Never again. Sherlock's hand combed through his hair. A soft sigh against his neck. The hot wisp of Sherlock's breath. Then Sherlock pulled away from him, slowly. A long, tender look. A silent agreement. Commitment. They couldn't forget that either. Never again. This intimacy. This happiness. In spite of any killers. In spite of any grief for Martin.


	9. Grief and Devotion

It was shortly after four a.m. when John returned to the efficiency flat. Sherlock looked up when the door opened. He was sitting in the reading chair with his laptop. He'd turned off the main light. Only the small reading lamp projected a narrow cone of light onto him. John didn't turn the light on. He silently took off his shoes and jacket. Then he crossed through the semi-darkness of the room and stopped in front of Sherlock.

"Martin is dead," was all he said.

He went into the bathroom without waiting for a response, without so much as looking at Sherlock for a single second longer than was necessary to deliver the message. He went into the bathroom, exhaustion hanging off him like a leaden cape. A dreamwalking veil of emotional overload. Sherlock watched him go, the way he moved through the dimly lit room. Tired. Hollow. Empty. He stayed where he was in the armchair, shaken by the news. Unable to cope with John's reaction.

The sound of flushing. The shower. John stayed in the shower for a long time. When he emerged from the bathroom, a cloud of moisture and spicy shower gel came along with him. He went through the flat, passed by Sherlock without looking at him, directly into the kitchen. The glaring neon light flickered in the living space. Sherlock stood up and followed him. 

John stood in front of the open refrigerator in t-shirt and boxers, staring helplessly inside, a bottle of milk in one hand, undecided, as if he didn't know what to do with it. Sherlock took it out of his hand.

"Sit down, John," he said gently and nudged John toward the little kitchen table.

John sat down, unresisting. Sherlock filled a glass with cold milk and placed it on the table in front of John. He spread some butter on a piece of bread, cut it in half, put it on a plate, added some cheese that he'd cut into thin strips along with two pickles. John looked at him without really registering what was happening.

"Thanks," he said flatly.

John drank the milk. He ate some of the bread, some cheese. Mute. Far away. Sherlock simply sat there, sat across from John at the little table. He'd wanted to tell John, wanted to explain what he'd found out about the murderer, wanted to share everything he already knew, what he'd inferred and deduced, wanted to lay out the facts, to say that he was close to solving the case. But John's grief was so urgent that Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't know what to do or say. He didn't want to leave John alone.

John eventually pushed the plate away, rested his left arm on the table, covered his eyes with his hand and cried. Sherlock was helpless for several long seconds. He'd seen John cry before but never in such an intimate moment, just the two of them, so close, never so openly right in front of him. Sherlock reached out his hand, placed it on John's lower right arm where it rested on the table, bare warm skin. He took John's hand, felt the tight, desperate grip, laid his other hand on top. Just held on. Silent. Until John started to sniffle, and then he let go with one hand, took a tissue out of his trouser pocket and handed it to him.

"Thanks."

John released their connection, wiped his face, blew his nose. Then he looked up, into Sherlock's face.

"I'd like to go to bed now," he said quietly. "Are you coming?"

"I can sleep on the floor if you want to be alone," Sherlock said.

John shook his head. "No," he said. "Stay with me."

Five minutes later, the two of them lay in bed. John had turned toward the wall. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him from behind, held him gently, making sure he didn't crowd John, giving him space in case he couldn't stand being so close with so much sadness inside him. But John accepted the embrace, along with Sherlock's hand in comfort. Neither of them slept; sleep was impossible.

"Tell me about Martin," Sherlock said softly.

Several heartbeats passed before John was able to answer. "I don't know if that's a good idea, Sherlock."

"There was more than friendship between you and Martin, wasn't there?" Sherlock asked. His voice was fearful and halting.

"I didn't really know him. I don't know anything about him."

"But?"

John struggled with himself. Then he turned around in Sherlock's arms, keeping enough distance to be able to see Sherlock's eyes. Two glowing spots in the dark. Too dark. John touched Sherlock's face briefly with his fingers.

"Do you really want to know, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, inhaled and exhaled. Thought about it.

"Yes," he finally said. "I don't want things to stand between us that might endanger this new thing we've started."

"It's going to hurt."

"We've crossed each other's borders, John. A lot of things are going to hurt on this new path."

John took a deep breath. It took a long time before he started in.

"All right," he finally said quietly. "There was sexual contact between Martin and myself. It was during the ritual. Martin distanced himself from it. He said he was acting as a proxy for you and it was all about you. He said you were my ex, and I had a problem letting you go. He advised me to set things straight. But outside of the ritual, in the club, Martin told me he was looking for friendship and love with a man. That was before the ritual. I was only playing my role at first, but then I realised I wanted that too. Having Martin so close, so openly, made me aware of how much I wanted it."

John fell silent for a while. He was breathing hard, struggling with himself. Struggling for clarity. For the truth. For words to express that to Sherlock. Sherlock listened silently.

"I liked him. And he liked me. I couldn't forget his offer. Until the point when the ritual bound us together, there was still a chance in his mind that I would break it off once and for all with my ex and go with him. He didn't try to hide it."

John paused. Tears began to well up in his eyes again. He ignored them. He could feel Sherlock's question burning between them, even if Sherlock wasn't asking it.

"It was an option for me too," John finally said. "I would have gone for Martin, and gone gladly, if not for you. You were always there. In the background. In my thoughts. Not as my ex, but as a... possibility. I was fighting for it. It was harder than I'd thought."

A soft, shocked sound from Sherlock. He shivered. John reached for his hand. It was hot and stiff.

"I was scared of that possibility with you, Sherlock. It was right there in front of us for so long and we never saw it, maybe we didn't want to see it. I knew it would be binding, and fierce, and exclusive if we let it happen. We know each other so well, Sherlock, we live together and work together. We share everything together."

Tears leapt from John's eyes. He wiped them away with his hand. "And then you came to Bury. I set everything on a single card, and you met me halfway. It was clear after that. It must have been clear to Martin too, at least after the ritual we shared. And now he's dead."

"You loved him," Sherlock said tonelessly.

"I didn't want to let that happen."

"You're crying for him."

"He was always proper, you know? He never made the first move. He never pressured me or propositioned me. He was waiting for my decision. I was close, Sherlock. I was very close."

John sobbed. Sherlock gently put his arms around him and pulled him close, drew him into an affectionate embrace. John burrowed into him.

"Thank you for the truth, John," Sherlock whispered very softly, his voice choked. He was shocked at how close he'd come to losing John. How little he'd understood of what was happening between them. How painful it all was. His heart hurt, it hurt so much, he'd never thought it possible it could hurt this much. His throat and his eyes were burning. He let it happen, let the tears flow. They mixed with John's and seeped into the damp pillow.

***

It was almost noon when John woke up. It was light out. Sherlock was sitting in the reading chair with his laptop, hard at work in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. He looked up when John started to get up.

"You can go ahead and stay in bed," he said. "I called in sick for you at St Anna's."

"Shit," John said.

"It's not a problem. Phil is back. And the way you look, you shouldn't be seen in public anyway." Sherlock tried to smile. It came out sad.

John got up anyway. He felt hollow, like he'd been run over by a lorry. His eyes were swollen and sore, felt as if they were full of sand. Sherlock was right: he couldn't go out in public like this. Even more so after he'd checked the mirror in the bathroom. The ice-cold water felt good. John cooled off his face, couldn't get enough of the coldness. But it stayed on the surface. His heart was raw. The water didn't reach that far.

Sherlock was out in the living room. Martin was dead. John fought fiercely against a new wave of tears. He wished he had a friend who knew about his struggles. He wished he could have told Martin why he'd chosen Sherlock. He wished Martin would have understood and accepted that, would have absolved him of any betrayal. He wished for Martin's smile and Martin's blessing for him and Sherlock. He wished he could have thanked Martin for what he'd done for them, all the while setting aside his own heart. He wished Martin could have been his friend. And he wished so much to have seen Martin happy one day, with a partner who loved him unconditionally. Maybe the four of them could have got together. He wished that Sherlock and Martin could have looked each other in the eye, knowing about each other, and that they would have accepted and liked each other. All gone. Dreams. Martin was dead. 

John got into the shower, turned on the water. He bore the burden of the memories and the wishes alone. Martin was dead. All the undigested memories and tangled desires. Sherlock was out in the living room. His partner on so many levels, for so long already, close, familiar. A new adventure of physical passion between them, the goal of their desire down an unknown path, not sure where it would lead them. A shaky start. A tentative first step. John didn't know whether Sherlock really wanted that, whether it was important between them, whether it would bear fruit and enrich them. Or whether Sherlock would realise one day that this path wasn't for him, that it wasn't important. It was all open-ended. Torn open. John felt tormented and alone.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Sherlock had made coffee, pushed a cup into his hand without asking. The gesture confused John. He couldn't recall Sherlock ever having made coffee for him before. He accepted it gratefully. And he was astonished to recall that Sherlock had made him a sandwich the night before, cut cheese into strips for him, taken him into his arms, cried with him. Everything was so new and unfamiliar, and it touched John unexpectedly deeply. It also scared him. He wasn't alone. Sherlock was here. He'd chosen Sherlock. Not Martin. Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes. Pale and worried. John put the coffee cup down on the table.

"I've got myself all twisted up, Sherlock," he said without looking up, no strength left. "Help me, please. Help me to come closer to you." And he added hesitantly, "If you can."

Sherlock laid his hand on John's arm and looked into the churning grey eyes. The water-coloured blue was mild and clear. 

"I can," he said softly. "You're my partner. Tell me how."

"Stay with me."

"I am."

John held out his hand and stroked Sherlock's arm, hard tendons and muscles under warm skin. A narrow wrist and a delicate hand awaiting his, opening. Their fingers slid in between each other, closed around each other. A current of warmth flowed through John's body. He let himself sink down toward Sherlock, into the arms that held him close, hands that caressed him, breath on his neck, Sherlock's scent, heat, Sherlock's readiness. A desire erupting suddenly, accelerating John's pulse, speeding up his respiration, pumping his genitals full of blood. He longed for a male body. Untamable. Inescapable. His heart was beating so hard. Sherlock pulled him closer. Arousal flooded him. A soft gasp. Heat. The embrace became more passionate. Sherlock's lips on his ear. John. A whispered puff of air. Fervid breath. 

John felt the cupboard behind his back. Sherlock was pushing him up against it, crowding into him. Sherlock's erection through the thin material. John was overcome by a wave of fire. It was coming from Sherlock and took his breath away. He reached into Sherlock's hair, feverish lips between his, demanding, a surprised moan, Sherlock's heat penetrating him forcefully. He opened up to it, sucked it in hungrily, returned it. A sudden pause, panting. Sherlock's hands trembling against his cheeks, the icy blue veiled and deep, bearing a question. John put his hand over Sherlock's, stroked it, slid his fingers ardently in between Sherlock's, crowded in close to his friend's overheated body, didn't leave any doubt that he wanted it. Wanted more.

"Sleep with me, Sherlock," he whispered. "Come."

He pulled Sherlock to the bed. Their scant articles of clothing landed on the floor on the way. They embraced, full of desire. Sherlock surrendered any reservations he had left. Surrendered his head. Surrendered all control. Gave himself over to the rush completely, took what his body demanded, conquered John slowly, attentively, single-mindedly. John was taken aback by it for a moment. But then he opened himself up to this new experience, so profound, so pivotal that it jarred him. Sherlock was giving himself up. Utterly. And John let go. Gave himself to Sherlock, made a gift of himself, unconditional. Sherlock loved him, pursued the desire between them with a care that touched John deeply. Grief expanded within him, opening him up. John didn't know whether it was grief for Martin. It was old and profound, mixed with devotion. Unconditional surrender. Maybe it was the same thing. Grief and devotion, both meant a total letting-go in love. No reservations, no alternatives, no safety net. And in the same moment, John knew what it was that he wanted, that he yearned for so much.

"Wait," he whispered, holding Sherlock's face steady, both hands buried deep in his curls.

He kissed him, full of love. Then he got up and went into the bathroom. When he returned, he gave Sherlock the little bottle with lubricant that he held in his hand. The icy blue blown wide, heavy breaths, open mouth, wild, tousled, damp hair. Their eyes met. Lingered. Long and deep. A thousand questions. A thousand answers. Love. Desire. Trust. Not a single word passed between them. John lowered his eyes for a brief moment, a wordless yes. Sherlock put his hand on the back of John's neck, drew him in and kissed him possessively. No hesitation. He did what John longed for, what his body urged him to do.

The intensity of their union was stronger than anything they'd imagined. They held onto each other, clung to each other, tight and deeply connected, filling each other up, completely, inside each other, a closeness and intimacy that nearly drove them mad, gasping, on the edge of conscious thought, shocked at the irresistible power of what was happening between them. Knowing that this incomprehensible, boundless intimacy changed everything.

***

"We have an appointment at two at the Suffolk Constabulary," Sherlock said softly. It sounded unfocused. Sherlock's gaze was lingering on John's.

"Let's go then."

"We're already late."

A smile in John's wide, grey eyes. Sherlock smiled back. Warmth and tenderness in the icy blue. His fingers played absently with John's.

"We should probably get up anyway," John said. "And we should call Linda and let her know we'll come by later."

"Shower together?" Sherlock asked.

John smirked. He reached for the mobile phone on the nightstand and handed it to Sherlock. "Only after you've called."


	10. The Chalice

"I don't like it," Linda said. "Isn't there another way?"

"Not if you want proof. Without proof, you may be able to arrest the suspect, but you'll end up in court with nothing but circumstantial evidence and they'll win," Sherlock said.

"All right, if there's no other option then we'll do it that way. I'll let them open the club up again."

Linda was ruminative. Her voice betrayed the fact that she didn't like going along with Sherlock's suggestion, that the plan worried her. She glanced over at John, who sat silently next to Sherlock at the conference table. He seemed to be lost in thought and was unusually quiet.

"John? You're the one who's going to have to go through with this. I'd like to hear your estimation of our chances."

"It's good for me," John said.

"Your estimation on the chances?" Linda didn't let it go. "You're the one I'm officially coordinating with. I need a clear statement from you."

John took a deep breath. He was unfocused. Martin's autopsy report and Sherlock's conclusions from it concerned him. Martin hadn't died of the same poison as the others. That was why the antidote hadn't worked. Sherlock was certain the attack hadn't been meant for Martin, that it had been an accident, a mistake. Martin had died as a result of an error.

"It's a risk," John said. "But it's a calculated one. The important thing is that we prepare down to the last detail, especially from a medical standpoint. We can't afford any mishaps. We're putting human lives at risk. If Sherlock's right with his analysis, this mission will deliver definitive proof." John's eyes met Sherlock's. "Based on my experience with Sherlock, I assume his suspicions are correct," he added. "In my eyes, the mission is justifiable in spite of the risk. I support it completely and am prepared to go through with it."

"Good," Linda said. "Then let's plan this thing thoroughly. I'll need a list of all the preparations that need to be made."

***

They'd been sitting at the Suffolk Constabulary station for hours now. John looked at the information board with all of the connections and correlations Sherlock had laid out. The board was full of pictures and notes. A huge mind map. Reaching back, far back into the past. Back to Phil Salisbury's father. A good fifty-two years ago. Jonathan Salisbuy. Professor of Pharmacology at Cambridge and doctoral advisor to an extraordinary student, barely twenty-six years old at the time: Callum McHattrick. His dissertation on a rather spectacular topic: "The Library of Lucius Krambold: Science and Mythology in 18th-Century Pharmacology". It included a description of a strange recipe. _The Chalice_. Callum only mentioned it in passing in his dissertation. It wasn't a topic for the public. Not even back then. The Chalice.

Handed down from ancient times. Socrates had taken it in 399 B.C. And countless men after him. Poison hemlock. A plant that grew in abundance just about everywhere. In gardens and meadows. Ubiquitous. _Conium maculatum_. A neurotoxin. Coniine. It caused paralysis of the respiratory tract while the victim was still fully conscious. It was used for executions. And suicides. 

John stared at Sherlock's derivations. The mind map. All the layers. Rational. Clear. Cause and effect. There was another truth behind the Chalice, though. John was well aware of it. A deadly tradition over hundreds of years. In every age. A last resort. A last resort for men who had smiled deep into the eyes of other men, who had shared their lust with them. Social ostracism. A dead end. Aberrations of creation. Hopeless. Men who had chosen death. Voluntarily or by force. Alone or in pairs. Death – Martin had said – had been the flip side of homosexual love for centuries.

"There's a recipe in Lucius Krambold's opus," Sherlock said, "but it doesn't work. Krambold himself wrote that the recipe was incomplete. He built in a delta, a twist that he would never reveal. He himself brewed the potion for anyone who asked, however, and served it to them. At least that's what Anonymous 3 says on _Ars Herbaria Magica_."

"All men."

"Yes. Love between men was taboo, and it was his specialty. Love. Honour. Death."

Sherlock turned his head and looked John in the eye. A moment of absence deep in the pale blue, of looking away, perhaps of remembering. That was new. Sherlock thinking of something else in the middle of a case, even if it was only for a fraction of a second. John took note of it even as Sherlock turned back to the data, sticking two pins onto the section for the club, a green one and a black one.

"The Black Chalice is lethal," he said.

"And it's still being offered at the club?"

"Both are. Callum McHattrick is the only one who knows the lethal recipe, but only a handful of initiates know that. Officially, the club only knows of the Chalice made with Lucius Krambold's incomplete recipe. It has strong mind-altering properties, can lead to dizziness and fainting, but it isn't deadly. Callum used it for his rituals when he was Grand Master. It's still used now and then during rituals today to achieve a deeper trance. The spiritual leaders all have access to it. There are instructions on dosages written by Krambold himself."

A policewoman rapped briefly on the door before entering.

"You were right, Mr Holmes," she said, holding out a piece of paper to Sherlock. "Anonymous 3 is none other than Callum McHattrick. The texts have the same vocabulary profile. A very eloquent Medieval Latin, by the way. You don't often see it."

Sherlock took the paper and looked at it. "How accurate is the profile?" he asked.

"Lexical fingerprint," the police officer said. "Ninety-eight percent."

Sherlock tacked the sheet to _Ars Herbaria Magica_ and taped the note on Anonymous 3 to _McHattrick_.

"Identical," he said, more to himself than John. "I thought so. He virtually carried on an argument with himself. As McHattrick about the Green Chalice, and as Anonymous 3 about the Black Chalice. He traced it back to Albertus Magnus. And all to pull the wool over Phil Salisbury's eyes." Sherlock tapped on Phil's name, which was also taped to _Ars Herbaria Magica_.

"According to Medieval sources, a man has to drink at least half a litre from a cup of hemlock for it to kill him," John mused. "The concoction is caustic and has such a strong and unmistakable taste that it would be impossible to poison someone without them noticing."

"Krambold's Chalice has no relation to the cup of hemlock, aside from the idea behind it," Sherlock said. "It's a completely new formula that's not only deadly at extremely low dosages, it also kills much more quickly and painlessly. Anonymous 3 wrote at least five treatises on it."

"Krambold never divulged the deadly formula. How does Callum know it?" John asked.

"From his doctoral advisor, Jonathan Salisbury. Phil's father. There's a suggestion from Anonymous 3 on _Ars Herbaria Magica_ that the true Chalice was able to be reconstructed in the labs at Cambridge, _ab honesto J. Salisburum_. But the recipe was supposedly lost."

"And the murders?" John asked.

"The last attack was probably meant for Callum. I suspect Phil mixed up his own poison and established an alibi through you, John," Sherlock said. "Davide Perilli must have known or done something. He died from the Black Chalice, as did Peter Moor and Gordon Kelley. Callum most certainly had a hand in the game, although I'm not sure yet in what capacity. What's still not clear is why Moor and Kelley needed to die. We'll find out as soon as the new Grand Master is appointed and we can nail Callum and Phil. I'd appreciate it if you could gather information on the election of the Grand Master at the club, John. It will be open again in the morning."

"Sure," John replied easily.

Sherlock watched John as he studied the information board. "I need to send you in alone because..."

"I know. Phil knows you and he's meant to think I'm on my own."

John picked up a black pin and stuck it under _Cambridge_ by Jonathan Salisbury. Then he took two red pins, stuck one by Martin's picture and the other by Phil under _St Anna's._ A new poison. The scent of herbs.

"Callum passed the office of Grand Master on to Martin," John said. "He asked me to be respectful toward Martin. He thought a lot of him. I can't imagine he knew anything about the attack and just let Martin walk into the knife."

"Can you find out, John? He could be lying, playing a game."

"Or the attack was meant for Martin after all. To punish Callum, or to warn him."

Their eyes met. 

"I'm relying on you, John," Sherlock said. "You'll need to sound out the people at St Anna's tomorrow, and the same with the people at the club in the evening."

"I know. I'll do that. We'll know more afterwards. I'm tired now, Sherlock. It's late. Can we go home?"

Sherlock looked at John, the start of a worry line between his eyes. John looked tired and sad.

"Yes, of course," he said.

***

Sherlock unlocked the door to the flat. He still had the only key. John set down the plastic bag with the takeout order on the floor. They hung their wet coats on the hook and took off their shoes. It had started to rain. The flat smelled warm and familiar, the damp coats and shoes musty. John closed the door behind them. Sherlock stood there uncertainly.

"What is it?" John asked in a friendly way.

"I want to hug you," Sherlock said shyly.

John held out his arms without commenting and pulled Sherlock in close. He closed his eyes when he felt Sherlock's sigh against his neck, his arms wrapping around him, snug and affectionate. A current of warmth flowing between them. Relief. Relaxation. Home. Maybe home. And low in his belly the initial fluttering of a butterfly. John gently extricated himself from Sherlock's grip, ran one hand through his friend's damp, dark curls.

"Whenever you want to touch me, Sherlock, just go ahead and do it," John said gently. "There isn't anything for you to be afraid of. I won't reject you."

"Never?"

"No, never."

Sherlock's clear eyes. Still uncertain for a brief moment. A lingering gaze into John's. A dull shadow in the icy blue. John didn't know exactly what it was. Worry. Fear. Sadness.

"It's not that easy," Sherlock said. "The case and at the same time this... second life."

"I know." John was reflective. "We came together under difficult circumstances. I was under pressure because of Martin and fled into your arms. I didn't give you a choice. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

John picked up the plastic bag from the floor, wanting to go into the kitchen with it, but Sherlock stopped him.

"Wait! You did give me a choice, John. I could have said no at any time. I didn't." Sherlock's eyes were piercing. His voice firm, a hint of severity. His hand held John's arm in a steely grip. "I want you to understand that, John. For you to know that. To know it for now and forever: I had a choice, and I made it. I'm happy. I'm grateful you turned to me, even if the conditions were less than ideal. It was a good thing. I'm prepared to accept that, do you understand? I'm prepared to fight for this and to do anything so that our..." Sherlock paused to regroup. "… so that we can remain close to each other like this," he said, his voice suddenly low and faint.

He let go of John's arm, grabbed hold of the coat hanging on the hook, closed his eyes, and took a shaky breath. Taken aback, John studied Sherlock's pale face. He looked exhausted with his wet hair in the poor light of the entryway. John swallowed. The unexpected words had taken him by surprise and shaken him. The remarkably long and unequivocal statement. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and their gazes met. The wild, flickering blue with an intense glow in its depths. John let the plastic bag drop carelessly to the floor and flung his arms around Sherlock, hugged him fiercely and with all the force of the emotions which welled up so tempestuously inside him. Sherlock returned the embrace, pressed his face into John's neck, his fingers into John's hair, the nape of his neck.

"That's a declaration of love, Sherlock," John whispered, deeply moved.

Sherlock's response was likewise a whisper, choked: "Yes, it is. I hope you finally understand." The faint undertone of impatience and relief was clear.

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped tightly around each other.

Then John said softly, "Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome."

John smirked at the quick response, and on a mischievous, joyous whim, slid both hands into Sherlock's hair, tugged his friend's head back a bit, and kissed him passionately. They didn't stop until they were overheated and breathless. They looked into each other's feverish eyes, panting, and smiled.

"Our second life," John said.

Sherlock ran his fingers across John's lips, leaned over and kissed him on the tip of his nose, biting it lightly and suckling on it for a moment, chuckling at John's bewildered look.

"Let's have something to eat," he said mildly. "We should discuss the case and delineate your role for tomorrow. And you should be fit and well-rested for the morning."

***

They talked about the case while they ate. John tried to compose his role so as not to give anything away when he saw Phil and Callum the next day. It was hard. Phil was sure to ask about the status of the investigation, probably first thing in the morning at St Anna's. And he'd want to hear directly from John what had happened at the club. Martin's death. Phil couldn't so much as suspect that Sherlock was here. He couldn't be allowed to know anything of the suspicions against him, of the trap that Sherlock and Linda's team were planning. He should think he was safe, that his plan had worked: a murder right under John's nose during his proven absence. The perfect alibi.

"Grieve for Martin," Sherlock said. "Ask yourself why such a capable and beloved man had to die. Keep an eye on Phil. You may find out something about his motive and whether the attack was really meant for Martin."

John nodded. He would do that, and it wouldn't be difficult. He nodded, meeting Sherlock's eye, and the message was clear between them. Sherlock was part of this. He was strong. Emotionally strong. As solid as a rock where John was concerned. And their … love? Sherlock had accepted the label on his declaration of love, and even confirmed it. John admired Sherlock for that. Admired him for his courage, for his unexpected clarity on things that must be new to him. Or maybe not. John didn't know, and he realised how little he actually knew about Sherlock's past.

When they lay in bed later, sleepy, John on his back and Sherlock with his face resting against John's temple, John said, "Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Go on."

"Is what's happening between us new to you? Having feelings for a man, sleeping with a man."

"I already said I don't have any experience with this. Why do you ask?"

"You seem so secure. In everything you say or do."

Sherlock smiled. "Nice that it seems that way," he said.

"Is it new?"

Sherlock smiled, tousling John's hair and hugged him tighter. "No," he said. "Of course it's not new. I always knew it was a possibility. And I read up on it, so to speak. Starting when we... when you moved to Baker Street and I was confronted with the topic. With friendship. With love. With desire. With sexuality. I researched it quite thoroughly. But you were always with women. You denied any advances. I adjusted. But yes, that was the first time the topic was even up for discussion. But now you need to be quiet and go to sleep."

"Sherlock..."

"You need to be in good shape tomorrow. Sleep now."

John snorted softly and indignantly. Sherlock nestled his face up to John's for a moment, bit him lightly on the earlobe before turning around, not leaving them any other option than to go to sleep, each basking in the other man's familiar warmth.


	11. The Error

Sherlock paced back and forth, harried. Anxious. Tense. A volcano. He wasn't just angry, he was furious, on the verge of desperation. He'd torn photos and notes off the board, crumpled them up and thrown them across the room. He'd sworn and argued and cursed everything he could think of, from the Constabulary to the club, mystics, men, Jesus, doctors and pharmacologists – poisoners, all of them – song-and-dance men, the naïve Mr Nice Guys, the government, plants, the earth, the sky, the world, all of creation, the universe, and himself. His intelligence, his genius, his naivety, the error of letting himself be distracted, his absent-mindedness, his blunder. He didn't understand how he'd failed. He: Sherlock Holmes. He ranted and raved. Linda and her team just sat there. John too. Sherlock Holmes had failed.

"I'm not giving up," Sherlock said. His eyes flashed sparks into the room. His mouth was grim, his hands curled into fists. "Never," he said, his eyes meeting John's helpless grey ones.

"Four people," he said, turning to Linda. "Four people have been murdered and we're barking up the wrong tree. Why? Linda, why?"

"I don't know," Linda replied quietly, resigned and tired.

She looked into Sherlock's eyes, where anger, disappointment, and determination fought for control. Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on hers. A long time. A wild flickering in the icy blue chill. A stroboscope of emotions.

"We've overlooked something," Sherlock said. "But what? It must be something simple, something obvious. Something that's obscured, invisible in its implicitness."

Sherlock turned to the information board. He took Phil and Callum away. Both of them had proven their integrity. They had a shared past, they had differences of opinion over the formula of the Chalice, they engaged in academic duels, but they had nothing to do with the murders. No motive had crystallised, and there was no proof. Not even a clue. The new Grand Master had been elected. In silent agreement. The spiritual leaders had begun the ceremony with a sip of their Chalice, as was their tradition. They'd elected the new Grand Master while in the trance of their altered consciousness. There hadn't been any further poison attacks during the election, contrary to Sherlock's prophecy. All of the cups had contained an accurage dosage of the drug. There also hadn't been any fights over the title of Grand Master. Everything had taken place with amicable consideration, including the celebration afterwards – dignified and understated given the sadness over Martin.

They'd elected Ciril, a young man who was supposed to leave the old behind and promote the new, just like Martin had done. Who lived freely and openly. Ciril, the young astronomer. Ciril, who didn't deny his love for Bernie for a single second, who had always lived it openly. Ciril, a pupil of Callum and Martin's. He had been a member of the spiritual leadership of the club for over a year. He was seen as an investment in the future. There was no conspiracy amongst the older members, no battle of the specialisations. Everyone was working toward the same goal and promoting it together. Sherlock's world view crumbled under the weight of these facts. There were people who let go of their selfishness, their own interests, their past, their wounds, their reservations, and disappointments in order to give the future a chance. There were people who thought further than their own life. Who thought in terms of the system. A system of connections, of energy, of links that went far beyond any individual consciousness.

That was it. The consciousness. Sherlock looked up into Linda's blue eyes.

"What's missing, Linda?" he whispered, his brain already formulating and analysing the next thoughts as he spoke. His gaze landed on John's grey, wide-eyed look of concern. Then he turned back to meet Linda's eyes and said, bewildered and in a tone of astonishment: "The women. What do we know about them?"

"Callum was married. He's a widower," John said, unsettled by the sudden turn the situation had taken. "He has four daughters, all academics with their own children and families. Callum probably has several grandchildren."

"Who are all as old as Callum was when he joined the club," Sherlock said, more to himself than to those present.

"Peter Moor, the first victim, lived with his partner, a doctor named Ginger Burton," Linda said. "They weren't married but had two children together, nine and seven years old. The daughter goes to school but the son is severely disabled. Peter had officially claimed paternity." Linda leafed through the notes from the investigation. "Phil Salisbury had also been married and had one daughter. He was divorced. The divorce went through a year after his first malpractice suit. Davide Perilli was his lawyer for that."

"He left his family for Davide." Sherlock had resumed his restless journey around the room. "But that doesn't make sense as a motive."

"Why not?" Linda asked. A slightly irritated undertone in her voice. "Maybe it does for a woman. What do you know about women?"

It was a low blow, and it hit home. Sherlock struggled to maintain his composure for a moment. It took a while before he came to grips with the statement and collected himself. But then he regained control and thought about it. His gaze sought John's. John was pale. His mouth a thin line. John had fascinating lips. Narrow, a noble curve, beautiful in a manner that incited passion. Sherlock was annoyed that he noticed it then of all times.

"You're right. I don't know anything about women," Sherlock said simply, turning to Linda. "Is that a motive for a woman?" he asked her. "Being left by a man?" His voice sounded calm, but John could hear the vibrations in it. Sherlock was wound up like a spring about to snap.

"No," Linda said. "But it is a motive to be left alone with two young children, one of them severely disabled, with no financial security. With a life that dumps all the responsibility in your lap."

"Peter? Peter's dead. He was the first victim," John countered. "The question is: who killed him, and why?"

"Maybe he wasn't murdered," Sherlock said. He was pacing again as he thought. Then he stopped short in front of John. "Peter was young, thirty-eight. Why did he ask for the Chalice?" he asked softly.

Their eyes met. They were both thinking the same thing.

"Callum," Sherlock explained, resuming his pacing, "prepared the deadly Chalice for some reason. Anonymous 3 wrote that it's only made when someone requests it. Did Peter ask for it?"

"We didn't know anything about the Chalice when we questioned Callum," Linda said. "And he didn't mention it of his own accord."

"He's sworn to secrecy," Sherlock said. "Just like Martin was."

"Who might know something?"

"Callum. And Peter's partner."

"We questioned Ginger Burton back then," Linda said. "She assumed Peter had been murdered."

"She didn't find out about the Chalice until later," Sherlock mused. "Just like us. Along with the reason for her partner's suicide."

"Gordon?" John asked. Then he froze. His eyes locked on Sherlock's. "Or Martin?" he asked, startled.

But Sherlock had already moved on to the next thought. "She's a medical doctor," he said. "Is she working?"

"Part-time in St Anna's," Linda answered. "According to her, her partner got her the job through his connections at the club."

"That's it! Yes, that's it!" Sherlock beamed. "John and I will talk to Callum McHattrick," he told Linda. "Can you have him come to the station to make a witness statement?"

"That's going to blow our cover," John pointed out. "Callum's seen the two of us at the club."

"I know." Sherlock was positive. "But this time we have them, John." And to Linda: "Have Peter's partner taken into investigative custody and bring in all the men who work in St Anna's and go to the club. Including Phil Salisbury."

***

"Yes, I'm prepared to answer the questions," Callum said calmly. "After all, we're talking about murder."

"Martin?"

"Yes."

"What about earlier, before the murder?" Sherlock asked. "Three men died. What was that?"

Calum fell silent, appeared to be thinking. He sat on the hard chair in the interrogation room, his hands on the table in front of him. He looked calm and collected.

"There's an old tradition..."

"The Chalice," Sherlock broke in impatiently, "we know all about it, about both Chalices. So stick to the point, Dr McHattrick."

Callum nodded. Then he began again. Serene and solemn.

"I prepared the lethal Chalice. There was a request."

"From Peter Moor."

Callum nodded. "We spoke to him at length, on more than one occasion, Martin and I. We brought a psychologist in. But Peter insisted. And so with heavy hearts, we decided..."

"Who is 'we'?" Sherlock jumped in.

"According to tradition, the Grand Master makes the decision. Martin and I made it together."

"Assisted suicide is an indictable crime and the Chalice infringes on the Misuse of Drugs Act," John said. 

Callum looked over at him. "I know, John," he said. "I'm prepared to assume responsibility for it."

"Peter elected to end his life," Sherlock said. "What happened then?"

"I don't know," Callum said. 

"Three men die of the same poison, which can only be prepared by you, and you know nothing? How is that possible?" Sherlock said.

"I prepare the consciousness-expanding Chalice in the lab at St Anna's," Callum explained. "I don't have a laboratory of my own anymore. I spent a lot of time at St Anna's because the effects of the drug weaken as it oxidises. I only prepared small amounts at a time. I had free access at St Anna's."

"Phil set that up for you."

"Yes. I have a key to the labs and my own drug cabinet that can be locked up."

"Who else has access to it?"

"Darian and Seal sometimes prepared the Chalice to help out. They both work as doctors at St Anna's and have been members of the club for many years."

"So the recipe was available."

"For the consciousness-expanding Chalice, yes. It's kept with the extracts in my drug cabinet."

"What about the lethal one?" Sherlock sounded impatient, and when Callum didn't reply, he added forcefully, "Three men died of this poison, Dr McHattrick. THREE!" Sherlock leaned on the table and looked the old man directly in the eye. "What happened to Davide Perilli and Gordon Kelley, Dr McHattrick? You know quite well, don't you?"

Callum stared into the cool, piercing eyes. Then he said calmly, "I'll make a statement if you guarantee that no other club member will be held responsible."

"Namely Darian, Seal and Phil," Sherlock said sharply.

Callum didn't answer. He endured Sherlock's gaze. His old eyes calm and clear.

"I assume full responsibility," he said, "but the others remain in the clear."

Sherlock huffed. He appeared to be considering it. Then he said, "Fine. I'll see what I can do. I'll need your statement to establish Martin's murder."

"That's why I'm prepared to cooperate," Callum said.

***

_I, Callum McHattrick, being in full possession of my mental faculties, do hereby voluntarily make the following written statement regarding the deaths of Peter Moor, Davide Perilli, and Gordon Kelley in the club known as "Lucifer's Gardens":_

_I have prepared the so-called 'Chalice' for the club in the laboratory of St Anna's Hospital for many years. It is used during various rituals. I have also prepared, in the same laboratory, a lethal variant of the Chalice which contains the same botanical extracts but with a small variation in the drugs. I made the lethal Chalice for the club member named Peter Moor in the full knowledge that I was making myself culpable in an assisted suicide. Only Martin Combs and myself knew that Peter Moor died at his own request from the lethal variant of the Chalice, and we renewed our oath of secrecy at the time of that decision. It had been 22 years since a man had last requested the lethal Chalice, as I had intentionally kept my knowledge of this option a secret._

_After the decision had been made, I prepared the Chalice for Peter Moor and delivered it to Peter Moor. Due to the extreme stress of the situation, I accidentally left the note with the variation, which I had stapled to the standard recipe, in the lab. The next Chalice was prepared by Darian Vinscher, a physician at St Anna's. He rarely carried out the procedure, and knew nothing of the lethal recipe, similar to most of the club members. I presume he used the recipe he found, which was the lethal variant, and brought the Chalice to the club, where Davide Perilli intended to withdraw following his ritual for a session of transcendental meditation, for which purpose he had requested the essence on that day. Davide unknowingly drank the poison instead of the Chalice he intended. It was an accident. I am the only one who realised the connection and I immediately removed the note with the variation on the standard recipe from the lab._

_Several weeks later, Gordon Kelley requested the lethal Chalice. He was Peter's boyfriend and they had apparently originally planned to die together. Gordon couldn't deal with his partner's suicide, and wanted to follow him. Both were HIV-positive but didn't find out until Gordon came down with an infection. Gordon was additionally threatened by Peter's female partner, who blamed him for Peter's death and threatened to ruin Gordon's life in turn. Martin and I refused the second Chalice, but Gordon threatened Martin and me with reporting the club to the authorities if he didn't get it. I prepared it a second time, albeit under duress. After that incident, I decided to destroy the recipe and end the tradition forever. Martin agreed._

_I had nothing to do with the death of Martin Combs, but I assume that it is related to these unhappy events at the club._

_I testify herewith that this is the truth as known to me._

_Dr Callum McHattrick_


	12. The Mind Palace

"What's the point of this?" Sherlock asked.

"Just relax," John replied.

Since there was no reaction forthcoming, John turned his head to look at Sherlock. The saltwater in the bubble pool churned around Sherlock's chin. His dark hair hung down wetly in his face. The underwater lighting darkened the blue of his eyes to a dark, shadowy, nighttime-blue, reflecting the continuous, undulating motion of the water. Sherlock's expression was anything but relaxed. John reached for Sherlock's arm in the foamy froth, found his hand where it was clinging underwater to the railing of the pool. John placed his hand on top of Sherlock's, begging to be allowed to take it in his. Sherlock slowly unwrapped his fingers from the bar to clutch John's hand.

"Relax," John repeated when Sherlock almost lost his balance for a brief moment in the seething water.

Just then, the jets in the pool turned off. The water calmed. Sherlock relaxed and leaned back. Now that the sputtering agitation of the water had died away, his fingers interlaced affectionately with John's. They leaned back next to each other against the side while the other bathers swam out of the bubble pool into the nocturnal, steaming saltwater basin. Another set of relaxation and massage jets started up at the far end. The lights dimmed in the bubble pool. Blissful calm. John closed his eyes, leaned his neck back against the edge of the pool, let the water buoy him up, enjoyed the warmth of the saltwater in the cold night air. What a luxury it was to lie there in the hot water, outside in the cold night. Steam everywhere. Peace. Nothing but the burbling of the water. Hardly any people. Just Sherlock beside him. Hand in hand. The broad night sky above, full of stars. Utter relaxation. A rare gift.

"You taste salty," Sherlock whispered. His tongue slid slowly and erotically across John's thin, beautiful lips. Such a flat, even, gentle yet decidedly clear, arousing line. John's body reacted immediately; strongly.

"Sherlock!" he gasped.

"Relax, John." Sherlock's voice rich and velvety. 

John pushed Sherlock away a bit. "What are you doing? We're in public."

"Are we?" Sherlock asked. "It's dark, John. The young couple over there only have eyes for each other. And the three elderly ladies have their eyes closed and are basking."

He'd moved closer to John in the night-time water, their hands still joined. It was dark in this part of the pool and the saltwater was steaming. Visibility wasn't much more than two metres. Sherlock's tongue touched John's lips again, its tip probing into the slit between them, both tempting and demanding. John opened to the gentle urging, returned the kiss for several long moments, was overwhelmed by Sherlock's unbridled passion, felt his heart racing, his bathing trunks becoming tight; Sherlock's too. This wouldn't do. Not here in the baths. John dragged Sherlock away from his lips by his wet hair.

"Sherlock. You can have it all. At home. Not here, please."

"It's... incredibly exciting, John," Sherlock whispered. His forehead touched John's, he licked John's cheek with his tongue. "And salty."

John smiled. "We're in a saltwater bath, Sherlock. And if possible, we should avoid causing a public spectacle. But we can go home whenever you want."

"Not yet," Sherlock replied.

Just then, the jets started producing bubbles again, the lights went up, and the three elderly ladies roused from their doze and looked over at them. Sherlock moved away from John and swam away, out into the still waters of the swimming basin. John hung back, trying to cool himself down in the refreshing bubbles, leaned back and closed his eyes with a smile. Sherlock certainly was a bundle of surprises now that he'd begun to expand his love of experimentation to a new area of expertise. 

Sherlock the Magician, who extended the boundaries of reality by the dimension of what was possible. Creative. Always on the border between experience and insight. It was the Sherlock John knew from their work. With the same gift for observation and appetite for risk, the same resourcefulness, the same impertinence. With all of his doubts and insecurities. The same restlessness and focus on the goal. And, just as in their work, he completed John's life in this area as well. Only this time it was a life whose borders he – John – had opened to Sherlock. The Lover. Intuitive. The border-crosser who enabled Sherlock to relinquish control. To find himself. To experience peace. 

How right Martin had been: _You have a sustainable foundation. You only stand to gain._ The Grand Master. John felt a deep gratitude when he thought of Martin. The pain surrounding him had faded with every step he and Sherlock had taken toward each other. The foundation was holding. John smiled; smiled for Martin. If he could have seen it, he would have smiled back.

***

Ginger Burton was an unassuming woman at first glance. Short. Plump. Jeans, jumper, suit jacket, straight shoulder-length hair. She looked thoroughly average and harmless in every respect. Until you had to deal with her. The officers of the Suffolk Constabulary were finding her an extremely tough nut to crack. As a medical doctor, she was highly intelligent and incredibly quick-witted. She admitted to absolutely nothing. She parried every question. It was a challenge to interrogate her, and no one succeeded on their first try. Not even Linda. Linda appealed to Sherlock and John for help.

Ginger sat on the hard chair in the interrogation room, completely at ease. The gaze she examined Sherlock with was curious and at the same time disparaging. Sherlock reacted to it immediately. And even though Ginger appeared completely calm on the outside, her eyes still threw off wild sparks as soon as she started talking. She had large, clear, green-blue eyes. A strange flickering in them, a gleam that both fascinated Sherlock and set off all of his alarm bells. She was an opponent to be taken seriously.

"No, Sherlock Holmes," she said with a smile. "I won't confess anything to you as I've done nothing wrong. If you believe differently, you'll have to prove it."

"You're not the one who decides what's right or wrong, Ginger Burton," Sherlock retorted. "And I will prove it. You can count on it."

A mocking smile on his lips. Interest and Focus. An attraction that couldn't be overlooked. Sherlock had taken the bait. John and Linda watched the interrogation from behind the two-way mirror. John stared at what was happening in the room, and for the first time, he realised he was stung by the fact that Sherlock's undivided attention, his fixation on the perpetrator once he'd caught their scent, was so unconditional, so absolute and unreserved. He was aggravated. Maybe even jealous. Criminals fascinated Sherlock more than anything else. More than anything. John swallowed hard. 

Linda glanced at him from the side. "Something wrong, John?" she asked.

John nodded. "He's caught the scent," John said without looking at Linda. His voice sounded thick, and he realised how senseless it was to compare Sherlock at work with Sherlock in private. Everything work-related ended as soon as the case was solved. Didn't it? That phenomenal long-term memory. Everything stored. Sherlock's catalogue of criminals. A huge, labyrinthine, highly detailed data palace full of memories. And privately? John tried to crush the thought. What was important now was to catch Martin's killer.

"Did you know that your partner, Peter Moor, had a relationship with Gordon Kelley?" Sherlock asked.

Ginger Burton smiled disparagingly. "I found out," she answered.

"When and how?"

"A year ago. I realised something wasn't right and spoke to Peter about it."

"The two of them had been together for six years. But now it developed that they were both HIV-positive. Gordon fell victim to an infection. Did your partner infect you, Dr Burton?"

"That's none of your business."

"You had an HIV test done a little less than a year ago at St Anna's. It was positive, wasn't it? I've traced back all the tests you ordered done in your role as a physician there. You had this one done under the name of a patient with the same blood group. She was brought in with critical injuries and died shortly thereafter, before the results arrived."

Burton barked out a laugh. "And is that supposed to be a motive or what?"

"Part of it. Several things came together for you, didn't they? You demanded that Peter break it off with Gordon, but he decided to stay with his sick boyfriend. He left you hanging with two small children, one of them severely disabled. The amount of care and the financial burden is hardly manageable for one person. On top of that the HIV infection. The two of them destroyed your life, and you threatened to do the same to them. They chose suicide. Your partner first, and Gordon a little later – under the pressure you exerted. You found out about the Chalice and swore revenge on that funny little club that had destroyed your life. Your personal computer shows how intensively you did your research. You tried to gain access to the recipe for the lethal Chalice. We found your fingerprints all over inside Callum's poison cabinet. You got the key from Darian and Seal. But you couldn't find anything useful. So you mixed your own poison."

"Right," said Ginger. "And then I forced the vial of poison on Martin Combs or whatever his name was and he just swallowed it," she said sarcastically.

"No," Sherlock retorted. "You wanted revenge on Callum McHattrick originally. You saw him now and then at St Anna's and kept an eye on him, looking for a weak spot. You weren't thinking of murder at first, but then you discovered something: Callum was taking Optineuro capsules from the hospital on a regular basis. A harmless dietary supplement to improve cognition. Large capsules, filled with lecithin, vitamins, and amino acids. Easy to inject with poison. Your plan was set from that moment forward."

Ginger twisted her mouth. She didn't say anything.

"You didn't need to do anything more than make sure one of the Optineuro bottles contained a poisoned capsule, and that Callum took that bottle. That was easy enough: Callum always asked a colleague to get the capsules for him, and she would leave it on top of his drug cabinet in the lab. Callum always came on Thursdays. Nothing simpler than to wait until it was that time again and switch out the bottle. You had plenty of opportunity. What you didn't know was that Callum wasn't taking those pills himself. He was getting them for Martin Combs."

Ginger Burton gave a mocking smile, but she had fallen silent.

"A brilliant plan," Sherlock said. "You thought Callum would swallow the poisoned capsule at some point. Unpredictable. Pure coincidence, the probability being high that it would happen in the morning at his house. Callum was old and lived alone. No one would suspect it was murder. Unfortunately, your plan didn't pan out. Martin took the capsule in the club following a ritual. Too bad for you, Dr Burton. And if you're thinking of continuing your silence: we've done our homework. Your fingerprints were found on the Optineuro bottle. That's enough to bring this case to trial. Even without a confession."

***

The light was warm and pleasant, the atmosphere quiet despite the large number of guests, the service attentive and understated. The place was full at this time of night. John had reserved a table. An excellent restaurant. Phil had recommended it to them. They'd already eaten and discussed the case and the club at length, enjoying the rest of the wine. It was their last night in Bury St Edmunds. The case was solved. Linda's team could handle the rest without their help. They'd decided to return to London the following day, declining Phil's invitation to the club.

Sherlock was unusually reflective that evening. Even if he was undoubtedly pleased about solving the case, there was no trace of the cockiness and exuberance that sometimes overcame him when everything was said and done and the culprits had been taken into custody.

"This time tomorrow we'll be back at Baker Street," John said.

"Yes, we will."

Sherlock held his wine glass by its stem, turned it absently, took a sip. The wine was heavy and velvety. Sherlock tasted it, deliberately let it bloom in his mouth, his palate, his body, closed his eyes for a moment. Then he set the glass back down on the white tablecloth with a simple yet smooth motion. John watched him in fascination. It was one of the rare occasions when Sherlock's upper-class heritage showed through. The matter-of-course ease of his table manners, effortless and elegant.

"We'll be back, and everything will have changed," Sherlock said. "You're not the same person you were before, and neither am I." Sherlock's eyes. A warm, shadowy blue, light and emotion in their depths. "No club anymore, no Martin to show us the way and help us along. We'll be on our own with the way we live now."

"Are you having second thoughts?"

"No." Sherlock smiled pensively. "Mycroft will notice the difference right away."

John nodded. "Mrs Hudson will too," he said. "And probably everyone who knows us well, sooner or later. Molly, Greg."

Their eyes met. Lingered.

"The way we're sitting here staring at each other, anyone who saw us would think we're a couple anyway," Sherlock said, his voice deep and warm.

They smiled at each other. John was sure Sherlock was right. They had been sitting there, focused completely on each other all evening. It was peaceful between them, quiet and replete. There wasn't room for anything other than the two of them. A glass case of energy that had formed around them, a kind of microcosm that locked them both inside and shut everything else out. Others must be able to sense it too.

"Do you have a mind palace for personal things?" John asked.

Sherlock was surprised at the question. He gave John a long, searching look. Eventually, he said lightly, "Everything's in the same mind palace. It's a network, everything's connected. What do you want to know?"

"That's all," John said. "Whether there are personal memories in there too."

Sherlock searched John's eyes for the span of a few heartbeats, then lowered his gaze. His fingertips touched the base of his wine glass, stroked it absent-mindedly. He seemed to be thinking about something.

"There are different landscapes," he finally said without looking up, his voice low.

The tips of his fingers felt their way distractedly across the cool, smooth surface of the glass, as if he were reading memories in the touch.

"There are the meadows of my childhood. Moments of lightheartedness. Playing on the riverbank. A summer party with music and lots of people. Christmas. The Christmas tree. There are many divergent paths, holes and caves on those meadows. Dark spaces full of fear and darkness. I haven't explored them all."

Sherlock fell silent for a while, inhaling deeply. He didn't look up. The tips of his fingers still on the glass.

"School and university are rough terrain. Many valleys. Complex. Encounters with people. Disappointments, almost always. Music and mathematics, chemistry – I can wander around fantastic mountain valleys filled with surprises and successes. Enjoyment. Away from the people. Solitude and a kind of happiness."

A brief pause. Another breath. As if Sherlock were entering a new territory. 

"Mycroft," he said, "runs through everything like a leitmotif. Inconvenient but also helpful. Irritation and gratitude."

Sherlock looked up. His gaze skipping over John's wide, grey eyes. But he had already wandered onward in his mind palace, into the next landscape. Preoccupied.

"Lots of encounters," he said, staring once again at the base of his glass, his fingertips. "During cases, in valleys, usually dismal and dreary. A distribution pattern. Points of light. People. Some trivial, some more important, some linked to hope. Episodes. A few constants. Mrs Hudson." A smile passed fleetingly across Sherlock's face. "Greg. The people from the Yard. You."

Sherlock fell silent. Breathing. He didn't look up. His fingers slid away from the glass onto the white cloth, seemed to explore the texture beneath the pads of his fingers for a moment, then lay still.

"Those dreary valleys are still there for the cases, but since you arrived, the weather is different," he said softly. "The sun shines. The landscape is more benign. It's brighter. And warmer. Lots of..." Sherlock paused for a moment, took a deep breath, seemed to be searching for the right words. "Lots of surprises. Unexpected things. Unexpectedly lovely moments. Unexpectedly painful ones too. Passageways to the childhood meadows. That surprised me. Games, maybe, cheerfulness. But precipices as well."

Sherlock's fingers felt along the edge between the glass and the tablecloth.

"And now," he said, "there's a new landscape with you. A fork in the road. In the midst of those valleys. A high plateau. Adventure. Sunshine. A lake. Wind. Unimagined freedom. New sensations. I can even hear the rustling of the leaves in the trees."

Sherlock raised his head. John gazed into his pale eyes, silent and shocked, deeply moved by the words and images Sherlock had presented him with unasked. He was unable to say anything in response. Sherlock searched the wide-open grey, now inundated with wetness, before asking gently, "Is that what you wanted to know?"

John swallowed and slowly shook his head. "No," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Sherlock was unsettled by his friend's reaction. "I've demanded too much of you," he said uneasily.

John had collected himself somewhat in the meantime. "No, Sherlock," he said quietly, his voice still trembling. "You've given me a gift. Another one. Thank you."


End file.
